


Rise of Arlathan

by danijou, tklivory



Series: Beyond Thedas [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adventure, Angst, Drama, F/M, Fantasy, High Fantasy, Humor, M/M, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2014-06-07
Packaged: 2017-12-12 08:34:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 143,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/809515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/danijou/pseuds/danijou, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tklivory/pseuds/tklivory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the arrival of two mysterious women attracts the attention of the now-retired Bard Ives Durante, his curiosity sparks a chain of events that will lead from the Grey Warden's Keep in Val Royeaux all the way to the Great Hall of Arlathan. Join Ives and his companions as they search to find a cure for the taint, and discover that no less than the future of Thedas is at stake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Whispers in the Wind

**Author's Note:**

> Rise of Arlathan is multi-volume work.
> 
> Volume 1: Silence of the Shadow is comprised of chapters 1-18. In it, the reader follows the adventures of Ives Durante and sundry others as they begin the journey which ultimately will restore Arlathan in its glory. Eventually, their travels will take them to the edges of Thedas and beyond.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the irresistible rumor of two mysterious women reaches the ears of retired bard and Grey Warden Ives Durante, his curiosity threatens to pull him and his loved ones into unknown danger and intrigue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to our betas, Mille Libri and ShebasDawn!

 

* * *

The song of a flute danced in the wind.

Val Royeaux danced along with it, packed full of people as they went about their business. As the oppressive heat of summer slowly gave way before the cool crispness of fall, the residents of the capital city of Orlais took advantage of the break in heat to pour into the streets, indulging in any manner of activities which the sun's hot beams had prevented. Money changed hands as baubles were purchased, cool drinks were poured, and information was exchanged. It was Orlais, and that meant that words were as valuable - if not more - as the wine which usually accompanied them. In the distance flashed the bright white of the Cathedral's spires and dome where it lay at the heart of the Chantry. Despite the distance which lay between this unimportant market square and the expansive center of Val Royeaux, the faint strains of the Chant reached the ears of those who drank, and laughed, and _lived_.

And the persistent joy of the flute celebrated with all of them.

It was a cheerful melody, full of life and wonder, and those who came into its power would smile as a memory came to them of a happier time: a beautiful spring day, the chuckle of a child, or perhaps even the light touch of a lover. Those who sought the source of their sudden good mood found a sight common in Val Royeaux: a busker, faded hat on the curb beside him, playing for a few coppers so that he could buy hot mulled wine for the night before the chill of the coming autumn could settle into his bones.

Such was the skill of the minstrel that there was even some silver mixed in with the copper in the hat, and the music distracted his audience enough they could be forgiven for not noticing the way his eyes moved over the crowd, as if he were searching for someone. When he wrapped up his song with a flourish and a bow, there was a smattering of applause as he swept up his hat and collected his earnings, and then he was dismissed from the minds of the people to whom he had given a small measure of joy. Life moved on, after all, regardless of the little distractions that came up along the way.

Ives Durante smiled as he placed the faded hat upon his head and tucked his flute into a case whose fine silver engraving belied the ragged clothes and smudged skin. As it was, he secured his earnings into a leather pouch beneath his tunic and began to follow the path laid by his eyes, fixed as they were on two figures working their way slowly through the crowd.

His sources had been correct: two women, both seemingly human - one shorter than most elves and the other wearing a cloak with a hood that kept her face in a perpetual shadow. He'd seen enough of a glimpse under that hood to be almost certain that she was one of the ones he sought, and no other pair had come through the square that was even close to the description he'd committed to his memory.

"Ah, lala, you are rather good at not being noticed," he murmured softly. Unlike most women of his acquaintance - _outside_ of his chosen profession, naturally - who wore dresses designed to enhance their figure and dressed their hair to attract the eye, these two could almost have passed for men, with their bland green and grey trews and tunics and hair bound so securely and subtly that one had to look to see that the short one had quite a lot of hair hidden under the collar of her cloak. Such a petite thing, yet her eyes constantly moved about the area, and she walked not with the steps designed to move the hips in a way to enchant a man but with the stride of one accustomed to carrying a weapon upon her back. "And you are good at seeing what is around you." He calculated their trajectory. "Ah, but you are still lost. Perhaps I should take pity on you before the dark comes and the true predators of the city emerge."

So saying, he quickened his steps, abandoning the idea of trying to take them unawares; it was clear that technique would not work with them. No, instead he concentrated on the fact that they were carrying at least one bag too many as his way to approach them, even though they had already turned down three other hopeful porters while he had watched. "Time to use some of that Durante charm."

With a quick sprint and exact knowledge of the alleys and byways of Val Royeaux, he managed to get ahead of them, ending up on another street corner where he quickly took some time to look less scruffy and slightly more reputable. Luck was with him as, just when they came close enough for him to call out to them, a blonde-haired vagabond staggered into the taller one, forcing her off-balance and almost knocking her off her feet. Ives rushed over and caught her bag and her elbow, salvaging both, and yelled a mild epithet at the wastrel, whose slurred reply wouldn't bear repeating in polite company. Thankfully Ives didn't take offense to insults on his abhorrent father, especially ones he'd directed towards the man himself a time or two. Turning to the woman he had helped, he said, "Ah, lala, you must have such a poor opinion of Val Royeaux after such an incident. Allow me to salvage the reputation of the beloved crown jewel of the Empress' seat." He swept into an over-elaborate bow. "Perhaps I could assist you ladies? I promise you, you will remain firmly on your feet as long as I am at your command."

The woman he'd saved from an untimely dusty bottom pulled back from him quickly, hand going to her hood to quickly restore it over her face - though not quickly enough to prevent him from seeing some of the scars that marked her, an obvious reason why she went to such lengths to conceal herself. As she attended to that, the shorter woman stepped forward and held out her hand for the bag yet in his grasp. "I think we'll be fine, thank you, ser."

He put on a charming smile. "But I know every nook, every cranny! And for such lovely company, I would perform such a service for only a few coppers. Such a bargain!"

The petite woman took another step closer, her stance making it even more evident she was no stranger to combat. The anxious way her face turned from side to side, however, displayed a bit more nervousness than she'd shown previously, as if she were afraid of something... or _someone._ "You _seem_ to be a lout, but-"

The other woman suddenly spoke. "But a useful lout. Give him your bag."

The short one looked at her companion, obviously startled. "Livilla-"

"I'm tired of carrying everything, and he did save me from a rather ignominious embarrassment." Livilla gestured towards where Ives stood. "Go on. If he really does know every nook and cranny of this ridiculously large city, I'm sure he can take us to the Keep."

Though still uncertain, the short woman finally sighed and held out her bag. "If you're sure."

Ives reached out for the bag - which turned out to be surprisingly heavy - and took the opportunity to peek under her hood, since it didn't conceal her nearly as completely as that of her companion. He found deep blue eyes framed by a face kissed only lightly by the sun. Pretty - but then, he'd rarely found a woman he couldn't use the word for - but with a line between her brows that spoke of a worry that never went away. "The Keep of the Grey Wardens? Of course I know where it is." He nodded back in the direction from which they'd come. "Unfortunately, it is behind you."

Livilla's hood turned to look at the shorter woman, who now looked embarrassed herself. "I told you we were going the wrong way, Isabeau."

"It's a ridiculously large city," she mumbled. Hitching her second bag higher onto her shoulder, she waved vaguely behind them. "Lead on, lout."

Ives chuckled lightly, but it was obviously no wise idea to continue heckling the poor women. "It is! Wonderfully, perhaps, rather than ridiculously, but just look around you! Cobbled streets, quaint cafes, fabulous drapery, brilliantly artistic signs... Ah, and can you hear it? Mm, the Chant, drifting through the streets and alleyways. A good reminder how blessed we are to live in Val Royeaux, _no_? But you don't seem to like it here somehow! Tell me, how is it so? Where do you lovely maidens hail from that you scorn such a spectacular, such a perfect gem as this?"

"The northern gate," Livilla said. "And before that, Montfort." Ives noticed the surprised glance Isabeau sent her friend, as if not expecting her to actually provide an answer. "Now, _that_ is the perfect city, Large enough to provide protection, small enough that you don't have to deal with..." She hesitated, then looked at where a large tree could be seen in the distance, jutting up from the distant Alienage. "...with humanity's worst mistakes."

Intrigued, Ives wished he could get a closer look at the woman. She was certainly too tall for an elf, but most humans - particularly in Orlais - didn't care one whit for elves beyond making sure they cleaned houses meticulously and prepared food on time. "Not all of humanity is so dreadful," he defended. "Why, I'm fairly certain I'm mostly human myself! Then again, there's a penchant in my family that makes me wonder... but that is certainly neither here nor there. I happen to fancy Montfort myself, you know. It's a wonderful little city, and it has such charming country ... ah, well... charm." He chuckled, hurrying ahead of them a step or three so that he could turn mostly towards them, walking more a blend of sideways and backwards than properly forward. There was quite a lot to glean from demeanor. "Not like the Warden's Keep. That is a ... Mm, heartier place. What would ever bring two lovely mademoiselles to such a place?"

"Limited opportunities," the taller one retorted. "And since we worked at the Keep in Montfort, we hope to find similar positions here with the Wardens. And that is all we need tell you." She paused, forcing Ives to halt as well as she turned and called, "Isabeau!"

The shorter one flushed and trotted to catch up with them. "Sorry, I thought I saw-" Her eyes darted to Ives for a second. "-a familiar face." Her hand disappeared under her cloak, and Ives had no doubt that it now rested upon the hilt of some kind of weapon.

Livilla stiffened. "Faster, lout. We'd prefer not to be on the streets of Orlais when the sun sets and the debauchery commences." For all her pretense, her words could not conceal the fear that leached into her voice.

"But night is my favorite hour! Ah, well, I suppose if we must. A shortcut may be in order, no?" Though he took their sleeves and pulled them along a side row, his eyes were still watching the street from whence they'd come. There was a face that he'd seen once before today, a face marked by a scar on his mouth that was quite distinctive, and that was peculiar since they weren't really in the same neighborhood anymore. It would take a third time to become more than a coincidence, and hopefully they would be at the Keep before that could happen. "You see, and now we'll cross the canal, and avoid having to walk all those extra blocks to the next main bridge. It's not as grand and beautiful as the other, but, ah, well... beauty must be found elsewhere, I suppose. Oh! Look, I've found some." Their cheeky guide gave Livilla a nudge and winked to her hooded face.

Isabeau reached out and put a hand on Livilla's arm even as it moved, quickly coming to her side and whispering something in what Ives recognized as the language of the Tevinter Imperium, but spoken so quickly he couldn't get more than every other word, though it roughly boiled down to _'he means well,'_ as far as he could tell. Turning to Ives as Livilla muttered under her breath and fell a step behind them, she said brightly, "And we are fortunate to have met you, ser, an honest minstrel willing to assist strangers in your beloved city. Do you generally perform these generous acts of goodwill?"

In a woman of Val Royeaux, or someone accustomed to the Game of Orlais, such a question would have seemed either cynical or flirtatious, those being the main forms of the Game between a man and a woman who were recent acquaintances. Isabeau... _She's either sincere,_ Ives mused, _or a master of the Game at a young age - and both are highly unlikely._

"Oh, no. Usually I'm not this sober." He chuckled heartily and put his attention back onto Isabeau, as she seemed to be the more receptive target here. "Would you believe I am a flirtatious drunk? Ah, you probably thought me a saintly sort before I confessed such a thing to you... Perhaps my lips are too loose. Or maybe my belt too tight... But we part at this point, for now, so I am able to escape my slips of the tongue. Convenient, _oui_?"

Their quickened journey had brought them to stand before the Warden's Keep, with its great, dusty courtyard separated from the rest of the city by massive, thin-railed gates, standing as it had for Ages: a bulwark against Darkspawn incursion from the mainland. As the years lengthened and the Blight in Ferelden became naught but a distant memory, however, the Keep came to represent mainly a source of casual entertainment in the form of its recruits, sweating through their training routines in the vast courtyard in plain view of all who passed by and looked curiously within. Beyond that courtyard lay only mysteries: few ever saw more than the inside of the mess hall, and only the Grey Wardens and those servants sworn to secrecy - usually derived from families who for generations had sworn the same oath - went beyond the sleeping quarters that housed the recruits. He gazed up at the high walls, then shook his head and turned to them with yet another florid bow. "... Except that I must leave you, for the guide is only useful so long as you are lost! Inconvenient indeed. I was so enjoying your company."

"I'm sure, lout," Livilla said, moving with almost unseemly haste as she took her bag from Ives and ushered Isabeau forward. "Come on, we'll see him later."

Ives raised an eyebrow, wondering how Livilla knew that particular fact, as Isabeau followed her friend's lead, though she whispered a quick thanks to Ives as she took her bag. Still, the way her eyes widened as she looked beyond Ives before she turned and practically bolted into the Keep tickled more than Ives' curiosity: the hairs on the back of his neck had responded to her reaction, alerting him to a danger whose nature he did not yet know.

Quickly he turned and sought the reason for her fear, his own hand slipping to a knife hidden in a cunning fashion behind his belt. He found a small crowd gathering in front of the Keep, attention turned inward. Warily he moved to join the crowd, his bardic instinct for trouble on high alert. He hadn't discovered _anything_ he'd wanted to in this little excursion: why the unusual pair had been granted permission to transfer from Montfort; why the recruit - whom he assumed to be Isabeau, despite her height - was younger on paper than she appeared to be in person; or why Livilla had only been listed as 'servant' when it was clear she willingly bowed to no one. However, he could at least determine why they had acted as if the Archdemon himself were following them.

After a bit of delicate bullying and lavishing of charming smiles, he finally made his way to the center of the crowd in time to see a Chantry laysister close the eyes of a man lying limp on the ground. Biting his lip to refrain from drawing attention to himself, he watched as a flurry of questions and exclamations and (this being Val Royeaux) swoons swept through the crowd as the woman stood from where she had knelt next to the body. "He rests in the Maker's arms," she announced. "Did anyone see what happened?"

The crowd seemed generally oblivious, but Ives obeyed the nagging in the back of his mind and slowly turned his head to look at the man beside him.

Once was chance, twice coincidence, but three times... Though he could only see the profile of the man, the light of the setting sun caught enough of the face to highlight the scar that ran alongside the man's mouth, pulling it into a permanent sneer. Ives _knew_ it was the same man he'd seen in the square where he'd first found the girls, the same man that Isabeau had tried to deny knowing, and now... He looked back at the dead body as two men straightened the limbs and prepared it to be taken away, trying to figure out what had made the dead man a target - and what manner of assassin had struck him down.

His peripheral vision caught a movement from his side: the man he suspected to be the killer was making a tucking motion into his tunic. Fighting the urge to go look for a dart on the body of the deceased, he made a _tsk_ ing sound and shook his head. "Such a tragedy. Truly a senseless death, and on a most beautiful day!" His mind raced, trying to come up with a _reason_ with which he could test the waters. "Ah lala, the Game has gotten rather dark since his Grace beheaded himself before the Sun Gates, dead before his rebellion against the Empress could reach dastardly fruition." He gestured vaguely to the body which someone had now covered with a cloak. "Must this be the cost of stability? Murder in the streets? Ah, such a pity."

The man didn't turn to him, but an odd smile twisted his already askew lips as a dark blue eye - the only one Ives could see - looked into the sky. "Gaspard de Chalons showed uncommon fortitude that day, to sacrifice himself for the good of the Empress and Orlais. A good lesson, perhaps, for those who choose to involve themselves in matters they should ignore." Ives noted the cultured Orlesian accent, spoken with the tones that usually only those of a noble background acquired, and wondered at the words - which seemed directed at _him_ as much as at the corpse lying on the ground. "I wonder if this act will be repeated, or if the lesson will be taken to heart."

The clink of armor signaled the approach of a squad of Chevalier, likely summoned at the request of the laysister, and the man shrugged. "Good day to you, ser. Pray we never meet again." Before Ives could respond with word or action, the man turned and slipped through the crowd. Even though Ives kept his gaze fixed on the man, he still lost track of him far sooner than he should have.

Letting a frown rise to the surface, he looked over to where the squad of Chevalier were talking with the laysister and taking control of the situation. Catching sight of a familiar figure - _very_ familiar, since he rather enjoyed the use of mirrors - he strolled over and caught his twin's attention. As he waited silently for his brother to finish the conversation with an old comrade, his gaze moved restlessly over the area, certain there were eyes upon him but unable to find the source.

When Jean laughed heartily and clapped his friend on the shoulder, Ives knew the conversation was over and that he would soon have his brother's undivided attention. The Chevalier with whom his brother had been speaking waved at Ives cheerfully before turning and rejoining his fellows in their grim task, and Jean approached Ives with a lingering smile on his face.

Ives inclined his head towards the Keep, indicating that it should be their destination, and Jean nodded. As they walked slowly towards the gates, Jean said in what he probably thought was a quiet voice, "So what did you find out about our mysterious pair?" His Orlesian accent was very thick, much thicker than Ives' own, but in the Keep it was considered polite to use trade speech rather than Orlesian - particularly since the resident Warden-Commander was a Dalish elf that hailed originally from Ferelden. His whisper was similarly clumsy, since the man had not a dishonest bone in his body, as far as Ives could tell. Granted, considering Ives' own dubious past, it merely meant that Ives himself had gotten the double dose for both of them.

"Very little," Ives murmured, his less accented voice soft enough to avoid detection. "One of them hid her face so well even I could catch no more than a glimpse. She could not easily hide in a crowd, though." At Jean's puzzled glance, he sighed. "You will know why when you see her. I saw hints of scars, but I suspect when she is uncovered they are quite a bit more noticeable. Your new student is shorter than our Artana, if you can believe that."

"And she is a human?" he asked, surprised, as Artana was certainly no giant among elves. "Her recommendation says that she is good with a shield... If she is so short, maybe that is because she can hide behind it, _oui_?" Though he had certainly sobered from that booming laugh he shared with his brother-in-gilded-arms, the man could not laugh insincerely. It was a shame this conversation had to be tainted by so many oddities. He had been hoping some of the mystery around their two visitors would prove to be rumor and gossip. Now it seemed that the storm clouds had begun to roll in. A murder right in front of the Keep... no doubt the Wardens would be pressured by the Guard for any pertinent information. "We should see how the week goes, I think. It should be interesting, whatever happens."

"Oh, I will agree with that, _mon freré._ Interesting... and quite busy. Well, whoever said that sleep is more than a luxury is proved the fool yet again." He stepped by Jean, clapping his shoulder as he passed, and looked towards the topmost window in the left tower. Artana took an office under her favorite vantage in the Keep, as her Dalish heritage taught her to always be keenly aware of her surroundings. He wondered if the Warden-Commander's choice would aid him at all in the days to come; the Keep was supposed to be a haven, but no matter the prowess of the Commander's bow, she needed him to play the Game. In Val Royeaux, not even the Wardens were safe from its twisted machinations.

He almost missed the movement in the corner of his vision, looking back only in time to see a haunting profile before it disappeared into the crowd.

"Let's get inside," he said, an odd chill waking goosepimples on his arms. "I don't like the feel of the shadows this day."

Jean shrugged amiably. "As you wish, _mon freré_. You will need to report to Artana, at any rate."

"Ah, but I thought _you_ were thrusting the reports at her this night, _mon frére,"_ Ives replied with a wink. "In a suitably _in depth_ fashion, of course. Maker forbid we disappoint our Dalish princess, _non?"_

With a familiar roll of his eyes at Ives' teasing, Jean simply shook his head, returning their conversation to more serious matters. "What exactly do you need to look into?""

Ives sobered as they walked through into the Keep proper, feeling slightly better with the thick gate closed behind him. "Several matters, including the fact that our mysterious pair of beauties apparently know the language of the Imperium, and that the poor soul your former comrade-in-arms out there are even now carting away to the Chantry for proper burial was from the Tevinter Imperium himself." Though the man had tried to blend in with Orlesian clothes, he hadn't changed his hairstyle or bothered to remove the amulet that showed his allegiance to a Magister. It didn't matter _which_ Magister - Ives recognized the significance of the amulet without needing to fret over the details, as it were.

Jean sent him a sharp look. "Truly? That's... odd." He frowned. It was more than odd, it was a wrinkle that took this out of the realm of the Game with which even he was familiar and put it into an intrigue that only a trained bard could truly understand.

Luckily, he had Ives. "More than odd," he agreed to Jean's statement. "And put all that together with the fact I suspect I know who our killer is, though my only evidence is instinct, and it adds up to some late nights for me." He smiled. "Ah, lala, later than has been _normal._ "

Jean chuckled. "As long as you remember to use sense when you wander, I am sure Artana will allow you to continue your investigation. Granted, that's demanding quite a bit from you..."

Wrinkling his nose, Ives puffed himself up haughtily. "I'll have you know there are none with better sense than I! Why, even the Empress herself has-" He stopped, and a smile came to his face. "Well, well, speaking of mysteries..." He pointed to where two figures, still in travel-stained cloaks, stood deep in conversation next to the wall of the courtyard. "Care to meet your pupil, _mon freré?_ " He grinned as Jean's eyes followed the line of his finger to the pair of hooded _dammes_. "I'll introduce you myself! Letting them know my introduction was a ruse is no terrible sin. After all... It's a mere matter of time before they too reach that threshold wherein it is too much to possibly love me anymore, and instead they begin to hate for reprieve."

His twin brother simply shook his head and wondered aloud, "Is it possible to start in the second stage?"

"Fiend," Ives huffed, moving forward and pulling the hat from his head and the raggedy coat from his back. With both over his arm he looked to be a very different man indeed - well coiffed save for the dirt he'd polished on for effect wherever the coat did not cover, and sharply dressed in a ruff-collared shirt and a vest in the same leather that made up his breeches. " _Mademoiselles!_ Welcome home, hm?"

They turned and looked at him. Isabeau giggled as Livilla, face still shrouded by her hood, said, "You took your addlepated time, lout. I thought you'd lost your way. Odd for a Warden to forget how to find his own Keep."

"Livilla!" Isabeau said with a playful nudge. "You know that wasn't what we were worried about." Reaching up, she pushed her own hood back and wrapped her fingers in her black hair, untying it from the knotted bun she'd put it in for traveling. "So you're a twin?" she asked Ives as she brought her hair over her shoulder and began combing her hair through it. "What's the handsome one's name?"

"Jean," Ives supplied in the very same moment and breath as Jean when he answered, "Ives."

Isabeau smiled as Livilla shook her head. The movement shifted her hood back a little bit, and Ives saw more than a mere hint of the scars he'd glimpsed earlier, crisscrossing her lower jaw and neck before disappearing under her clothing. He managed not to stare, but he was now _very_ curious about her appearance. "Well, at least one of you is honest," Livilla noted.

" _Livilla!"_ Isabeau gasped.

Ives got the feeling that Isabeau rather enjoyed her friend's acerbic comments, even if they treaded beyond politeness into the realm of insult. Clearing his throat, he drew their attention to him once more. "That is, _I_ am Ives, and this is Jean, and we are both handsome, _oui_?" One of Ives' baby blues winked, and in particular he seemed to be aiming the following shift of focus to Livilla. It was brief, though - not the least because Ives flourished and tilted downwards at the waist for a bow, limited by their close quarters. "We are in fact twins, and of a like mind about making sure neither of you lovelies have anything to worry about at all within these gates."

"Isn't it hot for a cloak like that?" Jean wondered innocently enough, not having received the full report of how these two hid. "What's your rank? Perhaps we have some armor you could change into within your size."

"She doesn't need armor," Isabeau said hastily as Livilla edged away. "She's my servant. It's been arranged with the Warden-Commander that once I become a Grey Warden, she'll stay on here in a similar capacity. She's a marvelous seamstress."

Livilla groaned. "Isabeau, that means something _different_ in Val Royeaux, remember?"

Isabeau looked a bit confused. "I don't-" Then she suddenly turned bright red. "Oh... _Oh_ , right. I, ah, forgot. I haven't been in Val Royeaux since I was quite young." Clearing her throat, she hurriedly continued, "Ah, not _that_ kind, but she's truly a marvel with needles. Not that I have much need for a variety of clothes, of course." She looked down at her rather plain traveling outfit. "Recruits rarely do."

"At any rate, you shouldn't see much of me after this, ser," Livilla said, addressing Jean. "And no great loss, I assure you." Still, she seemed to be regarding him closely. "Jean... Jean... Jean Durante?"

"Oh!" Isabeau gasped. "The specialist in sword and shield?" Now she seemed to be all business, throwing her hair back as she moved closer to Jean and peered up at him. "You were the one Warden-Commander Giselle in Montfort recommended to talk to about further weapons work. There hasn't been anyone at Montfort who can even make me break into a sweat for _years._ Will you be able to take me on for advanced instruction?" Her face broke into a wide smile. "And you're so tall! I've rarely been able to go against such a tall opponent - for some reason, the men at Montfort tend to be more Livilla's height." With a shake of her head, she continued to question him, expression intent. "Will I have an opportunity to see you handle your blade? I'm sure it's a fine one!"

Ives noticed an interesting thing as Isabeau got excited: instead of the accent of a rustic Orlesian she'd been sporting, her tone became smoother, more cultured. Not quite like his own or Jean's, but certainly not like the country cousin from the less populated portions of Orlais which she'd pretended to thus far. He put a hand over his mouth to hide the smile at her eagerness. It was a bit incongruous, to see such a petite thing throwing detailed questions about swords and shields at his brother with seemingly no awareness of the other meaning of the word _blade._ He saw that Livilla had turned her head and was trying very hard not to make a noise, but her shoulders were shaking suspiciously.

Obviously, he could not interrupt this priceless conversation. Especially when he noticed Jean's ears adopting a tinge of red. Though a man of pure heart and a noble soul, he _did_ have three children of his own, and had spent enough time in Court and around the Orlesian Game that triple entendres were familiar to him, much less unwitting double ones. Ives held down the smirk as best he could, but he did feel much the same as Livilla.

"Ah, yes," he finally said, moving forward, a hand reaching to the shoulders of both warriors so he could turn them and aim them across the courtyard. "I happen to know quite well that Jean's blade is most fine indeed. Coveted even. And he decidedly handles it with spectacular precision. You can hear the praise clear across the Keep after a good ... duel. Rest assured there will be a _vigorous_ instruction with vast quantities of sweat. Why, I am positive you will be the most fulfilled - daresay satisfied - as you have been in years. Go! Go on, before you lose the sun! It would be a shame to not _christen_ your arrival with a spar!"

Jean was sputtering at this point, and Ives was just barely holding down against the urge to laugh, but ... he was glad for it. After meeting that _man_ in the streets, he wasn't feeling so at ease about his promise to keep the Warden's Keep worry-free.

Isabeau's ears had also turned red, but as she turned to glare at Ives, her expression became distracted. "Perhaps we should just go to our rooms," she said softly. Wriggling away from Ives, she took Livilla's hand and pulled her away, hard enough that the hood came loose.

Ives saw a face marked by more scars than he'd ever seen outside those who regularly patrolled the Deep Roads, though the quick glimpse was more a general impression than any details. The haste with which they moved away filled him with disquiet once more, and he craned his head, trying to see anything amiss, but saw nothing. While Ives was frowning, Jean put his fear to words.

"Look what you did," his brother - the far more upstanding of the pair - scolded. "They're new, they must have been mor ... mor- mor... _mortified_ ," he finally blurted in his native tongue, and Ives knew how flustered he must have made him if he threw aside the Trade tongue, "- than I am!"

"It may have been ill-timed," Ives agreed, still looking around, "though I'm not so certain the reason is what you believe. Let them go to their room. Perhaps it's safer for them there. I am going to go be certain our guests are properly recorded by our lovely little wood nymph." Before Jean could respond, Ives was running by, patting his shoulder, and disappeared into the Keep.

Life had just become a bit more dangerous.


	2. Arrow in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While seeking answers to the mysteries presented by the two newcomers to the Keep, Ives Durante manages to move closer to the heart of the matter - despite the shadows which seek to darken his path.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to our betas, Mille Libri and ShebasDawn!

 

* * *

Ives found himself frustrated again and again over the next few weeks. Though Isabeau should not have been difficult to track down - he _was_ a Grey Warden, after all, and she but a recruit of the Order - it soon became clear to him that her ability to evade scrutiny was polished to a shine. Though not a complete hermit, she tended to avoid any gatherings or events which did not require her presence, including meals, one of his preferred times to catch a target unawares. Livilla was equally talented at avoiding notice, and since she was a servant, he had even fewer avenues to exploit to arrange time with her.

On the other hand, Ives prided himself on his resourcefulness. A Court Bard - well, _former_ Court Bard - would never so easily admit to defeat in the Game. Since the lovely duo seemed disinclined to reveal their secrets to him, it was time to wander down other avenues in search of what he needed, and so his feet took him to the bowels of the Keep, or ‘the Deeps’ as it was affectionately called by the Wardens of Val Royeaux.

Buried within the warren of corridors that threaded the gut of the Keep, his destination lay in the middle of those areas central to making life work smoothly: the rare hot springs which had been turned into soaks and baths; the steamy laundry rooms through which endless amounts of clothing passed each week; the vast storage space which likely had items left over from the Fourth Blight; and, amidst it all, the work rooms for the servants as they went about their duties.

Ives smiled as he remembered indulging in _other_ activities in the more remote areas of the basement warren when he had first become Warden, before he had devoted himself to his delightful wood nymph. Ah, how matters had changed. The man who had once swore an oath to his father that he would never have responsibilities now fretted himself on a daily basis about the safety and security of his rather large, extended family of Grey Wardens.

His feet took him by instinct to the room he sought, one of the cheerier rooms in the place thanks to the woman who ruled it like an Empress. His favorite source for gossip could generally be found in her customary habitat: the sewing room, where all uniforms and clothes went for repair. Of course, given that weapons practice was a large part of Keep life, Marie had touched everyone’s clothing and practice armor at least once, and her place as Housekeeper gave her access to the constant ebb and flow of rumors and speculation. A stout, no-nonsense woman with plenty of gray in her tightly-lashed hair and laugh lines on her face, she sat ensconced on her padded chair, needle dancing and feet spread out on a nearby stool.

Padding up behind her on silent feet, he was about to reach out for her oh-so-tempting braid when she said, “I wouldn’t do that, my lad.” Her voice, still thick with the burr of Nevarra, nevertheless held amusement. “Unless you wish parts of your clothes to be _too_ tight, that is.”

“Ah, lala, you are too clever for me by half,” he said with a grin as he walked around her chair. “It is my everlasting tragedy that I cannot tickle more than your fancy, so I am forced to touch of you what I can.” So saying, he took her hand and placed a resounding smack on the back of it before collapsing into a nearby pile of clothes.

“You, my lad, are a flatterer,” she said, a twinkle in her eye as she resumed sewing. “Now, considering you deliberately chose a time to talk to me before any of my assistants arrive for the day, who is it you wanted to talk about?”

“Are you implying that I only seek you out when I need _information?”_ Ives gasped. “And not for the beauteous joy of your companionship?”

She shot him a look older than time, then shook her head as he chortled. “I can at least save you some breath for your amusement. You want to know about Livilla, I presume?”

“No! I’m wounded! I ... Ah, but who am I kidding?” His feigned shock only lasted a few moments. “You know me too well. That is precisely the one I need information on!”

Marie’s lips pursed in thought. “A clever hand with the needle, she has - the only one besides meself that can work leather and lace both. The first couple of weeks she insisted on wearing that hood, but the heat finally got to her. The evenings may be crisp, but we can easily broil alive down here, on the hot days.” Clucking her tongue, she paused her needle for a moment. “I won’t lie, it gave me a turn when I first saw her face. I’ve been around Wardens long enough to recognize damage left by accident, and scars left over from steel. The poor thing...”

Ives frowned. He hadn’t had a good look at the scars, true, but he’d assumed they were burn marks - not an unknown injury in any city of Thedas, with the prevalence of straw for building material among the poor. “That bad?”

“Aye, that bad. Someone went to a lot of effort to make her look the way she does.” A hand went up to her eye and slashed downward. “Even took out one of her eyes. The fact her other eye is black as night makes it a bit unsettling to be under her gaze, even for me. I can see why she wants to keep out of sight - she’ll work when I’m here, and sometimes with Rosalie--”

“The one with her own fire marks,” Ives recalled. Marie’s nod let him know his memory was accurate. “But not at other times?”

“Never. And she never lets even me touch her mistress’ clothes, or her own. Poor thing never seems to relax, either, and jumps at shadows all the time. I can’t blame her, though. I doubt I’d be able to leave behind memories such as she must bear, either.” Marie shrugged, and the needle resumed its flashing dance across the slashed jerkin she was working on. “Still, for all that, when she’s in a good mood, she has a wicked good sense of humor and a beautiful little laugh. Pity she likely won’t find anyone to appreciate it.”

That comment _did_ bring a smile to his face - Marie was an inveterate matchmaker, and had quite the deft touch for it, too. “Surely there is someone who could appreciate the beauty in the marks.”

“Oh, there are few men such as you in the world, my lad. Still, I won’t object to her staying on once her mistress becomes a Grey Warden, bless her heart, and I’ve already let the Warden-Commander know as well. She’ll always have a place here.” With a little flourish, she finished the jerkin and laid it aside. “Another piece, if you please.”

Absently grabbing something from the top of the pile beside him, he handed it to her and said, “Speaking of her mistress...”

“Oh, little Isabeau. Such a tiny thing, but so strong!” She shook her head as she turned the clothing around in her hands, looking for the damage. Once she found that the sleeve had nearly been torn off, she began hunting through the basket next to her chair for the right thread. “I don’t know nearly as much about her, sorry to say. I did once hear Livilla call her ‘Madame de Brienne’ in jest, but other than that, all I can tell you is that she’s just a pretty Orlesian young lady - which I’m sure you already noticed.”

“I’m sure I have _absolutely_ no idea what you are talking about,” Ives replied _quite_ innocently. _De Brienne..._ The name tugged at something in his memory, and he made a note to ask Jean about it. The information was _something_ to investigate, at any rate.

“Hmph. I’d certainly trust her with Ser Jean before I’d trust her with _you_ , my lad.” Ignoring his continued protestations, she threaded her needle with an air of long practice and began to work on the shirt. “Incidentally, Livilla will be getting here soon. So unless you want your nosiness to be general knowledge, you’d best skedaddle.”

Ives stood with a great sigh of regret and made his goodbyes, promising a bottle of the finest cider he could lay his hands on for her assistance. Still, that had been ... somewhat productive, he figured, since he had more information than when he had first sought out his quarry. Jean hadn’t been able to help him decipher the mystery surrounding Isabeau, since he hadn’t actually had an opportunity to spar with her yet. Despite her initial enthusiasm, she had avoided Jean as much as Ives, perhaps working under the accurate assumption that whatever she told Jean would make it to Ives’ far more discerning ears. The initial warmth she’d shown to Jean that first day had been replaced with the same wariness that Marie had noticed in Livilla, and it made tracking the little warrior down a bit of a challenge.

Still, his troubles had not gone unnoticed. Last night, Artana had announced a mandatory archery lesson for all recruits, even going so far as to have all the senior recruits track down those who had not been at the meal (including Isabeau) to inform them of it. Caught up as he was in his own quest, Ives hadn’t quite made the connection that Artana had handed him an opportunity to interact with Isabeau on a silver platter until the following morning, even if Artana had insisted it was to ensure Isabeau actually met her peers.

“Ah, my unsuspectingly brilliant little Dalish heart,” he half-hummed. Naturally, Ives would need to dole out a reward for such cleverness, but first he had to get to the lesson. He stole a glance out the first window along the spiral stairs he was taking two at a time, eyeing the sky above to pinpoint the hour, and knew he needed to pick up his pace if he wanted to meet Artana on time.

When he found her, he ambushed his wood nymph and stole away her breath in a thankful kiss. He knew that Artana seldom bothered to ask _why_ he did things like that, so she predictably rolled her eyes with some degree of affection and continued on to the courtyard. Giving her space, he followed behind and smiled as she stopped and let her eyes adjust to the change in light.

“Yet the line to become a Chevalier was half a mile on recruitment day,” he heard her murmur to herself before moving into the shooting range at the west end of the courtyard. He understood why she said it, as the number of recruits awaiting her lesson were paltry compared to those of the Chevalier. According to Keep records, once the entire courtyard had rung with blades and barks of commands during a typical training session. Now, only a small part of the courtyard was occupied with _all_ the recruits in attendance. After the fervor of the Fifth Blight ten years past had dwindled, so too had the numbers of those offering themselves to service in the Order.

He turned slightly as Jean came up beside him, and their eyes met in a moment of silent greeting before they followed her. As they progressed across the courtyard in Artana’s wake, he felt an odd sensation on his neck, as if someone had laid ice upon it, but a quick search of the courtyard revealed nothing out of the ordinary. Dismissing the oddity, he focused his attention on Artana as she began the lesson.

Watching her draw a bow never ceased to amaze him: such strength and discipline in her motions, such beauty in her grace. She still fletched her own arrows and repaired her own rare ironbark bow, a fanciful wood-as-hard-as-metal that was little more than a legend here in Val Royeaux. As the silver inlay danced in her well-oiled Commander’s raiment, so too did the sunlight dance on her _vallaslin,_ giving her the alluring air of the exotic.

A _vallaslin_ was a funny thing to him - she’d explained it to him twice, the second time with a tinge of irritation - so he didn’t dare ask for a repeat. Yet to hide one’s own identity in the mask of a god, etched in sacred ink into one’s own skin, still made him wonder.

Granted, there was much that made him wonder, and some of it was the wonder of awe. Her career was another matter that filled him with awe and pride. She’d been promoted through the ranks in positively no time at all despite her rather unusual entry into the ranks of the Grey Wardens at the beginning of the Fifth Blight. Her exploits were legendary, and no one wanted to be on the wrong side of a battle where she had an ideal vantage.

He knew that one of the first stories all recruits learned upon arriving at the Keep was of her prowess. She had, after all, cleaned out an entire Darkspawn nest single-handedly from the safety of a well-chosen nook. Fifty Darkspawn corpses, including an ogre, was proof enough for most any Warden in the Keep, and generally earned her the immediate respect of the recruits as well.

Judging by the proud smile, he knew full well that Artana Mahariel wouldn’t have settled for any less now that she’d been taken from her clan in Ferelden. She was a fully dedicated woman, and she was going to become the best at whatever she set out to do. Even, sadly, if it meant that her life would draw to a premature close. The thought seemed at odds with the bright sunlight and clear sky, yet again that chill settled over his neck, and he frowned, wondering at such dark thoughts. Still, it was true that only those very _close_ to Artana knew that her skin held the pallor of approaching death rather than the paleness of life without sun, or that the cold that emanated from her marked her as a victim of the incredibly strong kiss of the taint which consumed her even faster than most Wardens.

 _If only Riordan had found her_ sooner, _or had a mage with him to sustain her as he took her back to the Wardens at the border of Orlais..._ Ah, if only...

For a while, the chirp of arrows was all that he heard from Artana’s lesson on all manner of bows and their proper handling, his mind wandering from the past to sifting through the events of the present. Obviously he wasn’t entirely immune to distraction as a handsome, if elsewise nondescript, blond fellow who hovered near the gate to watch the lesson from the outside caught his eye. Jean’s nudge finally got his attention, indicating that it had come to Isabeau’s turn.

As his eyes danced back to the lesson, a flicker of movement in the corner of his vision caught his notice, and he focused for a moment on the shadow where it had originated. With a frown, he fought the mild chill that ran over his neck arms and scoured the corner of shadows, but saw nothing. Forcing his gaze back to where Artana was working with Isabeau, he straightened his posture and _focused._ The young woman’s obvious awe of Artana hadn’t escaped his notice. If anyone could get an unguarded reaction from Isabeau, it would be the Commander.

“It’s a balance of strength and grace,” he heard Artana say firmly, touching Isabeau lightly at various points on her shoulders and arms. Even from where he stood, Ives could see where the trouble lay - Isabeau was trying _too_ hard to impress Artana and achieve the correct posture, and tension had tightened her shoulders enough to affect the shot. “Your stance is excellent,” the Dalish continued, “but you fight the nature of the bow. I know it is hard to bond with a piece not your own, but sometimes it is best to not try harder.” With another brief touch, she helped relax the woman’s shoulders slightly.

Ives watched as Isabeau nodded and took another deep breath, closing her eyes and dipping the corners of her lips in the slightest frown. Her shoulders relaxed even further, and when she opened her eyes, there was a clarity in them that had not been there previously. “I think I understand,” she said. “You have to let go of what you _want_ to do, so that you can do what must be done.”

Artana nodded in satisfaction. “Inhale now. You should not feel your stomach get so tight this time. There is no one to achieve for but yourself. Do not waver, but bend when you must.”

Fascinated, Ives watched as Isabeau straightened her back and took a breath, holding it rather than releasing it. A calm settled over her as she drew back the string, aimed, and released in one smooth motion, exhaling only after the arrow had been loosed.

It struck dead center.

Impressed, Ives began to applaud enthusiastically, nudging Jean who stood next to him in a not so subtle hint to join him. After rolling his eyes and nudging back, his brother did so, a broad grin on his face in acknowledgment of Isabeau’s feat. The greatest praise probably came on the dark-painted lips of the stoic Commander, however: she _smiled_.

“Very good. Dismissed.”

It was not the dismissal in shame that most recruits dreaded. This was the one precious few ever heard: the ‘good job, you’ve completed this lesson, you may leave early’ _dismissed_ , the one that earned jealous glances. To her credit, Isabeau accepted the compliment well and bowed correctly, recruit to Commander. _“Il a été un honneur, Commandant._ I think you for your instruction.”

As Isabeau turned to leave, Artana glanced at Ives, her expression clearly reminding him to take advantage of this opportunity to have a private conversation with Isabeau, even if her early dismissal had been earned and not _solely_ for Ives’ benefit. He dropped an eyelid for the briefest of moments as he confirmed this plot with a wink, his route fairly clear with Isabeau headed for a particular corner of the courtyard, behind the racks where she carefully replaced her bow.

The lesson continued without him as he moved behind the racks, hoping to avoid her notice until she’d entered the Keep proper, where he would then engage her. Every other chance he’d had to speak with her, other people had been in earshot, and so he devoutly hoped he could find her without any other close by, and that such a situation would make her more amenable to conversation.

When he entered the Keep, he paused and turned his head sharply, again catching that flicker of movement. And again, nothing was there but an empty shadow, even after his eyes adjusted to the change in light. Lips settling into a frown, he turned back to the corridor and hurried his steps, determined not to miss this chance. He slowed when he caught sight of her in a whispered conversation through a servant’s door with none other than Livilla, whose long black braid was distinctive even from this distance.

He approached them quietly, hoping to catch a bit of their conversation, but what little he could hear seemed to be in the language of the Tevinter Imperium. _Where on Thedas did they ever learn that language? Neither of them have a hint of an accent beyond a fluency in Orlesian._ It was but one of the many questions he needed to answer, but first he had to attend to the matter of security within the Keep - beginning with why the shadows seemed to have eyes ever since their arrival here.

As he came closer, he was grateful he’d spoken with Marie. Though he himself certainly did not consider scars a detraction from beauty, even he needed to pause a moment to take in the extent of the damage done to Livilla’s face. Long experience and a bard’s training enabled him to see the ghost of beauty which had once been there, but Marie had been correct in her surmise: it was an act of man - a sadistic, cruel man - that had inscribed those terrible lines onto the poor girl’s face. A long ragged gash slashed from forehead to chin and cut through an empty eye socket, and burn scars melted the skin around her mouth and nose. The rest of her face and neck - what was visible - showed a careful pattern of cuts and slices, their placement making him wonder if there had been some kind of ritual beyond simple brutality. Combining those observations together with the fact that they spoke Tevene, he reached an inescapable conclusion: _Livilla had once been a Tevinter slave._

His thoughts were interrupted by the terribly impolite word which emerged from Isabeau’s soft lips, and he watched as she took something from Livilla and stuffed it down her bodice. Ives suppressed a chuckle - _that_ would be fun to retrieve - and stepped forward, making a sound for the first time since entering the corridor. Isabeau whirled to face him, and he saw the fear on her face before it vanished, replaced by a far more welcoming smile of relief.

“ _Bon~jour, Ma~dame_ ,” he greeted her in a playfully singsong tone. “And you, _mademoiselle._ ” The latter he directed to Livilla where she hovered in the doorway, though the florid bow he then executed was directed towards both of them as he theatrically bent at the waist. As he straightened, he shot the wide-eyed Livilla a heartbreaker’s grin across his wide lips. “My mysterious damsel.” If Livilla did not yet regret dawdling before her retreat, it came swiftly enough when he winked a baby blue eye at her. He knew well enough he’d made her heart flutter, jaded as she pretended to be, when her mouth opened slightly in a gasp. His smile deepened when she quickly closed the door, escaping his presence more easily than Isabeau could.

Ives turned his attention to his remaining audience, using as much of his bardic charm as he could muster to keep her from fleeing. “That was quite a performance today. A bull’s eye! On the first shot! I will be singing about you some day.” He came a little closer, taking her hand to delicately restrain her. Hoping to distract her from his true goal of information gathering, he deftly removed her glove and stroked the back of her hand idly with his thumb and forefinger, curious if she would recognize the gesture for what it was: the first foray in the Game of the Heart, a request for conversation that might or might not lead to further dalliance.

Her response fascinated him. It was clear she was familiar with it, given the way her gaze dropped down to where his fingers touched her as a small blush appeared on her cheeks. _Ah, lala, so you_ do _recognize the Game. Proof that you are certainly no peasant, no matter what your accent wants us to believe._ “Or perhaps,” he continued, taking up the threads of the Game with a seductive drop in the pitch of his voice, “I will be singing _to_ you.”

Dark blue eyes rose to meet his, and he waited to see if she would deny her knowledge of the noble’s Game or play along. Either reaction would be informative not only of her past, but of her character. When she bit her lip, he knew that she’d realized she’d been trapped into revealing more than she’d wanted to. When a smile settled over her lips, he suppressed a grin of his own, since it meant she’d decided to give up the pretense in order to distract _him_ until she could escape.

_Ah, the more entertaining option. Delightful._

“I thank you for the compliment, Ser Durante,” she simpered - quite convincingly, too. “That is indeed high praise from one of such renown as yourself.” Her head tilted up so she could smile and bat her eyelashes at him, a pose which would have given him an excellent view of cleavage had she been in a typical Orlesian court gown. “My mother once told me that the blood of the Durantes runs hot, but their honor runs hotter and never bends. Tell me, Ser, how hot does your blood run?”

 _Your mother, hmm? So, Isabeau de Brienne... born of noble blood, but on which side of the blanket?_ His return wink was devilish, a gift seemingly bestowed by a Desire demon itself. He knew full well that he seethed charisma, but in this instance he used it for humor as much as for seduction. It was a combination he hoped would serve to distract her so he could steal past her normal conversational defenses. “ _Ma chérie_ , I think my brother stole all the honor away, so you should be cautious! I wouldn’t wish to en _slave_ you with my charm, now, would I?” He deliberately accented the key word, gratified when her face paled ever so slightly. “That would be a most terrible crime, indeed.”

“Indeed it would, Ser.” Her hand tightened ever so slightly in his, and he saw her eyes dart to the side before returning to him. Her body shifted as she leaned in a bit towards him. “Yet would it not be quite the tragedy if you were _caught_ in this dastardly act of seduction?”

He mulled over his response, trying to match the reason for the increased tension in her body with her own emphasis of words. So, Livilla had been a slave and escaped, and now they feared... her recapture? Though the medium was a trifle odd, Ives remained pleased that she was finally telling him what he needed to know, if he could but figure out how to ask the question. Slipping an arm around her waist so he could allow his eyes to glance to the side as hers had - though he saw only an empty shadow - he winked at her and replied, “Ah, lala, I fear not any man who would stand between us. I would strike them down with my rapier wit and devastating charm, and then sweep you away from all those that would _seek_ such beauty to be within their arms!”

Admittedly, he was quite enjoying himself, both for the unexpected intrigue and because she _was_ such a lovely warm bundle to have within his arms. _Artana!_ he reminded himself sharply, and quickly spun them about, lowering her into a slight dip that not so incidentally put his body between her and most of the room. Such defense of her was an almost unconscious response to the sensation of being _watched_ , though he could not determine by whom and from where.

A giggle came from her as she reached up to lightly grip his shoulder, as if to counter the effect of being lowered. “Oh, Ser Durante, surely I am not the only young lady whose head you’ve turned. There must be _eyes_ upon you at all times.” This time, her hand tightened when she said the key word, and her face was almost... _pleading._ “Perhaps ‘twould be best to release me and simply admire me from a _distance_. I would be distraught were any _harm_ to come to your poor, delicate heart, no?”

 _What do you fear,_ chérie? It was obvious now that she truly believed him to be in danger merely by lingering too close to her. “Well, I can admit to ulterior motives, after all. Yet I must _also_ admit to a curious thing.” He lowered her further still, shifting his grip so that one of his hands could come up and tease at the edge of her bodice, near where she’d stuffed her secret down its front. His eyes shifted back and forth, and he lowered his voice even further so it became more intimate, a mere murmur between them. “I’ve the most … niggling feeling we are simply not alone today. You wouldn’t have an idea why that might be,” his fingers came to a rest directly over where he suspected the object was, “would you, _ma chérie_?”

Her wide eyes and guilty flush betrayed her: whatever she had hidden was directly related to the danger she’d warned him about. An expression of burgeoning panic crossed her face, and he saw that she was trying to figure out what she should do next, given the situation she’d allowed herself to be pulled into. He’d made outright fleeing quite difficult and the panic had set in too deeply for her to find any suitable words that might allay his feelings; he knew just how limited her options were. Hopefully, a confession would be forthcoming very shortly.

Apparently, she had one other option to try, a desperate move to be sure. Without any warning, she wrapped her hands around his head and drew him into a deep, intense kiss.

He had to admit some surprise, both at the action and at her expertise. His arm tightened around her and pulled her closer, and the hand already lying on her breast squeezed for a moment before he managed to regain control of himself. Quickly, while she was still concentrating on trying to distract him - a move, he conceded, that would have worked on most men with blood in their veins -  his fingers slipped inside, ignoring the more tempting alternative in favor of his original objective. A piece of paper was wrestled from its hiding place and into his palm just as she released him, and Ives chuckled softly before he spoke. “You are admirable, and so very brave to play the Game with a Court Bard. Now … what is this?” He brought the paper he’d so skillfully extracted from beneath her bodice to the side of his face, raising a black brow in inquiry.

A hand gloved in black reached from behind him and snatched the offending piece of paper from his outstretched fingers. “ _This_ is mine, Ser, and I would think you have better things to do than take advantage of impressionable young maidens in the very halls of your Order.” The voice was dreadfully familiar, and Ives fought the urge to shudder as a cold sensation crept up his spine. A whisper of sound hinted at a retreat, but not before Isabeau had taken a single look at the newcomer and fainted dead away, hanging limp in Ives’ embrace. Still, Ives was not daunted, and in fact his eyes rolled a little as he straightened up with the ‘impressionable young maiden’ still in his partial embrace.

“I don’t suppose she’s fainted at the sight of a mouse, hm?” No, Ives felt this was more likely to be that confusing set of eyes from the shadow. Now that he had a voice to go with it, he could put a profile and scar to the man as well, taken from the odd conversation in front of the Keep with the man he was certain was a killer. It was going to be complicated defending her with her weight on him, but he stood straight nonetheless. His right hand settled on the set of twin daggers that rested in a sheath on that side. Sadly it wouldn’t be simple to draw them, but he’d just have to make do if it came to that. “Come out, _souris,_ I can barely see you.”

A chuckle echoed in the hall, making it difficult to pinpoint the source. “No, I don’t think I will.” Abruptly a pouch landed in front of Ives and the still-unconscious Isabeau, the piece of paper he’d recently gained and lost tied to the string holding it shut like a flag announcing its presence. “I have accomplished what I came to do, after all. The poison that was on the paper has begun to take its effect. You have two choices, _monsieur_. You can take that antidote and try to save the recruit and her little servant - as well as yourself - or you can try to follow me.” A pause, followed by a silken whisper, “And you will never succeed.”

“Question, if I may,” Ives affected nonchalance out of habit, hoping the man would be more likely to betray information to his quarry if he sensed no fear. Shifting the unconscious dead weight on his arm, he leaned casually against the wall. “Well, two, actually, if you’ll humor an apparently dying man. Firstly... why could you possibly want to kill someone so largely insignificant?”

“Such a low self-esteem issue you have, Ser. And here I thought the Durantes had better confidence than that,” the other voice taunted. “Although, to be fair, I lied. That is no antidote to save you, as _you_ will not suffer from the nature of this poison.”  Another pause, then a faint, “And your second question?  It is so amusing when my shadow is talked to by someone who knows not where I am.”

Having learned what he needed to with his eyes, Ives closed them, nodding a little as he listened to the questions. Abandoning the daggers, his free hand rose to rub his chin. “Ah, lala, I suppose it’s true,” he sighed with exaggerated melancholy and shrugged as best he could with just the one arm. “Perhaps I am off my game, no? Ahh, but yes! My second question. How many lives does a shadow have?” He pointed, and down the hall sounded a chirp from a crouched shadow of his own. The arrow that followed flew straight and true to the spot he’d indicated, and a whisper of cloth and a soft oath demonstrated his surmise had been correct. “I think not enough to remain in this Keep, no?”

Tension hung in the air before the voice responded. “A fair point. I’d forgotten how... _invigorating_ Wardens are in the hunt.”  A chuckle echoed softly in the hall, before the mysterious man gave his own parting shot: “I give you a boon, my friend, the gift of a third question I presume you would have asked. ‘Tis no poison such as you know. I hope you were planning on having a Joining ceremony soon, as my little targets are now fighting the surge of the taint in their veins. Until next we meet, _mon ami!_ ”

And then utter silence fell as the sensation of being watched simply _vanished_.

“I should not have missed.” Artana stepped forward, putting her bow over her shoulder even as she critiqued herself.

 _“Amour_ , you are but one woman. You cannot solve every problem. Is it true, though? Can you see the so-called poison inside her?” Ives shifted, picking Isabeau up by swinging his right arm beneath her knees.

The elf’s eyes glinted, much like a cat’s in the dark. She channeled her own corruption so that she might sense it elsewhere... in Ives, on the paper, and creeping through the girl in his arms. The effort strained her enough that she quickly snapped her eyes shut once more, answering with a simple nod of the head.

Ives sighed. “Then we must do what we can. A shame, I wish she’d simply told us what stalked her. We should send a healer to look at her servant, to see if she might be saved without a Joining... At least Isabeau expected it soon enough.”

“This stranger knowing our practice concerns me,” Artana murmured, moving closer to draw the paper off the band of the pouch. If the poison was derived from the taint, it could certainly do her no more harm... few besides broodmothers or rotted ghouls passed the stage she was in now. “An odd mark. Are you familiar with it?” Ives glanced at it, but shook his head. A castle silhouetted in front of a full moon, though evocative, was unlike any heraldry or crest he’d ever encountered. “Then we will research this as best we can.” A frown came to her face as she looked to the niche where her arrow had been directed. “The Joining is supposed to be a secret. In the past, even you were punished for leaking information to your brother.”

Ives issued a half-shrug, the motion restricted by the woman in his arms. “Mm... Well, nonetheless, prepare a Joining. I will find a healer and check in on Livilla. We shall see what can be done, and if that paper tells us anything of use without Isabeau to enlighten us.”

A few hours later, as he stared at the blank piece of paper Artana had handed to him with a frown and sigh of frustration, he shook his head and turned it over to look at the seal once more. In all his years as a Court Bard, he’d never come across the symbol, neither as a noble’s crest nor as a merchant’s sign. The paper had been but a conveyer of the taint, and an effective one at that.

He glanced at where the two women lay comatose in their beds, their chests barely moving. Artana had called in another Warden - a mage - to see what might be done to cure them, but it hardly took a minute for their fears to be confirmed. The Joining truly would be the only cure; the only way to bring the taint coursing through them under control. Ives set the paper back onto the table next to him, a frown once more on his face. _This Game is unlike any I’ve played before. What could he possibly want?_

Never had the shadows seemed so dangerous.


	3. With This Blood...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The shadows have fallen over the Keep, forcing Isabeau and Livilla to undertake the Joining or die - and leaving Ives to wonder how best to protect those he cherishes from their designs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to our betas, Mille Libri and ShebasDawn!

 

* * *

A moan echoed in the room, woefully not of the fun sort.

Ives started from the half-sleep he’d settled into during his self-imposed vigil over Livilla and Isabeau, shaking his head to clear the last vestiges of sleep from his mind. His eyes automatically sought his two charges, and he surged from his chair when he realized one of them was moving. _Thrashing_ might have been a more adequate description, her limbs twitching and flailing as if she were wrapped in the throes of a nightmare.

Quickly moving to Livilla’s bedside, he knelt and offered what comfort he could, moving a hand over her hair and singing a soothing song, hoping to alleviate her stress. The terrible dreams of Grey Wardens were very familiar to him, after all, since he had experienced them so many times himself. Given the nature of the magic taint that ran through her veins, he was not at all surprised that she would experience them even before the Joining.

Then he heard it, and almost _felt_ it: an odd keening sound, just on the cusp of hearing, echoing in the brightly lit room. He glanced around to make sure none of the candles had failed and no shadows had appeared. As he turned his head, his ears told him the source of the sound was, in fact, Livilla herself.

More specifically, the amulet around her neck.

As he pondered the oddity, the keening grew in volume, and he winced when the sound exerted a heavy pressure on his eardrums. He also noticed that as the volume increased, so too did Livilla’s thrashing, her face contorting as if in pain. Worried, he reached out to touch the amulet, though the plan of what to do with it was still unformulated when his fingers wrapped around it.

The growl of a bear echoed shockingly loud around him, and abruptly he was flung across the room. The sensation of a large animal grabbing his collar and throwing him would not leave his mind even though no such beast was in sight. As he staggered to his feet, the door crashed open, revealing his brother standing in concerned wariness. “Ives! Are you all right? I thought I heard--” Jean stopped when another moan came from the bed. “I-- I will fetch the healer-”

“Not yet. She is having dreadful nightmares, but that is hardly unexpected, _non?_ As for the rest--” He shrugged. “In that, I know as little as you.” Reaching up to rub the back of his neck, he froze, eyes widening.

“Ives?”

“Ah, lala, _nnh_ \- a moment.” He brought his hand down and stared at the streak of red on his fingers. “I must have hit the wall harder than I thought.”

Jean came over to see the wound himself, carefully lifting the queue of long hair aside to look at the neck underneath. “If I had to guess, I would say those look like teeth marks.” Ives felt a cloth press against his neck. “Keep the pressure on this. I am getting a healer. You both might need it.” Earnest face creased with concern, he hurried from the room.

Holding the kerchief in place, he returned to kneel next to Livilla’s bed. The keening sound had stopped, he realized, and she seemed to have quieted a bit. Her face, though taut, was no longer agonized. Ives sighed, a soft, mournful sound which had nothing to do with his new and peculiar injuries. Rather, it perfectly matched the gleaming of moisture in his gentle blue eyes as he scanned her face. “I wish you could tell me what occurred.” With a gentle touch, he reached out and traced the line of one of the scars on her face. “And what monster did this to you.”

He pulled his hand away when she stirred, surprised. On the advice of the healer, Artana had moved the date of the next Joining from a week hence to this very afternoon; and even then, the healer was not completely certain they would survive. Certainly she’d been dismissive of any notion they might recover on their own. Yet even as he watched, Livilla’s eyelid fluttered open and she gasped when she saw him. Her hand batted at his as she started back, stopping only when she reached the edge of the bed.

“Ah, not to fret, _mademoiselle!_ Though I could say that it is ‘only me,’ I suppose it wouldn’t do you much good in such a tired state, no?” Ives smiled in a charming manner, trying to calm her. “Ives Durante, at your everlasting service.”

She blinked, hastily looking around the room as if expecting something - or some _one_ \- else, and then sagged as the tension left her body. “I-- You startled me is all, lout.” With seeming effort, she attained a sitting position, refusing to meet his gaze as she pushed the blanket away and rearranged her hair to once more cover the worst of the scars on her face. “What happened?” Her eye widened as she looked beyond Ives. “Is that Isabeau? Is she all right?” When she tried to climb across the bed, her arm folded and collapsed under her, landing her flat on the mattress.

Quickly he moved next to her and helped her sit up. She started to pull away, but he insisted on staying near her. “You were both poisoned by a mysterious letter. Until you awoke, we feared for your lives.” He scrutinized her carefully as she took a shuddering breath. “You know, it would be quite helpful if you could tell us more about who left that letter - or why you are able to awaken from this tainted curse and Isabeau is not.”

She looked away from him, the muscles in her jaw rippling. “I want to check on her.”

With a sigh, he released her and watched her make her shaky way to Isabeau’s side. Experience told him she would reveal nothing to him he did not already know. The dynamics between the two confused him at times - sometimes it seemed Livilla was in charge, and other times Isabeau determined their course of action.

He stood just as Jean and the healer returned, watching with silent concern during the flurry of activity that followed as he absently rubbed his arms against the chill from the shadows outside the doorway.

.~^~.

The Joining Room of the Orlesian Keep was ornate, built Ages previously when the Grey Wardens held a place of much higher esteem in the society of Orlais. Though not technically a religious institution, this particular room had the air of ritual, with an altar set in front of a mosaic relief detailed in gold leaf. The ceiling was painted in fresco, and the stone floors were draped with thick rugs - though the latter were not simply for decoration. The thick doors did what they could, but if people heard screams, murder, or dead weight hitting the ground, it would be impossible to maintain calm and secrecy.

The Joining of two other recruits had been moved up as well, since Archdemon blood - the crucial catalyst in the potion that waited within the Joining Chalice - seemed to be in ever shorter supply these days. Even though the recruits trained, ate and slept in close proximity to the Wardens, however, they still did not know the true risks the Joining ritual entailed.

A blissful ignorance not shared with the Durante twins, who stood honor guard at the large doors every time Artana presided over the ritual. As Artana spoke the same words she had used at every previous Joining, Ives hefted the crossbow on his shoulder and sent a silent prayer to the Maker that _this_ time, he would not need to use it. He glanced at Jean, noting that his brother dealt with the strain of potential loss by holding a familiar book in his hands, a small illuminated manuscript of the Chant. Ives knew that Jean found greater comfort in the words of the Prophet than he, but part of the easement in this case also derived from who had previously owned that particular manuscript.

He turned his eyes back to the still form upon which Jean had focused and grimaced. Isabeau lay on the padded bench which had served as her stretcher to the Joining Room, her long black hair lovingly braided by Livilla in the last moments before they had been brought here. Livilla herself stood silently next to Isabeau, her hands gripping a small toy of a griffon: an oddly appropriate, if a trifle whimsical, addition to the upcoming events. Though Artana had been cautiously pleased to hear that Livilla had woken on her own, the anger from the almost entirely silent fight that had ensued when Livilla had refused to explain _how_ that had been possible still lingered, adding a subtle tension to the events.

 _Ah, lala, if only you would speak to us._ For another moment, he considered Livilla, who was now clutching the amulet he’d seen earlier and was silently mouthing words of her own in counterpart to Artana’s declamations. His neck smarted with the memory of the pain he’d experienced when he’d touched that piece of jewelry, and again he wondered at its significance. _Perhaps Artana knows more. I must remember to ask her after..._

Again, he shifted the weight of the crossbow, his duty heavier each time he came into this chamber. Though he knew Jean was willing to help, only Ives had the requisite skill to ensure a quick, painless death... should it become necessary.

 _Please, Maker, let it not be necessary. It’s as good a moment as any to prove you_ do _listen, after all. The last nine corpses from my bolts were a trifle disheartening when all I really wanted was just to_ not _have to commit a sin, no?_ He sighed softly, trying to not be irreverent to the ceremony, but wondering how far his faith - once rather strong and comforting - had fallen to be so jaded.

As Artana reached the last words spoken before taking up the chalice, he mouthed them along with her silently, knowing without looking that Jean was doing the same. “...And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten. And that one day we shall join you.” He watched as Artana gave a solemn nod and turned to the altar, wrapping her hands around the base of the ornate chalice that held the liquid that was both bane and curse to all Grey Wardens.

Though to Isabeau, he hoped it was naught but the drink of life.

Artana held out the goblet to the recruits, and Ives silently brought the crossbow into a more ready position, watching like a hawk as the two young men standing before Artana exchanged a nervous glance to decide who would partake first. “Step forward and drink,” she commanded when the hesitation lasted a moment too long.

The more fearless of the two nodded resolutely and stepped forward to take the vessel from Artana, quickly tipping the glass so that he got a mouth full of the noxious liquid. Ives winced. _Even I wasn’t quite that eager to prove my courage._ The smell alone had almost made him gag _before_ he’d taken a sip. _That’s it, lad._

Jean had stepped forward, careful to stay out of Ives’ line of sight as he prepared for _his_ unspoken duty. When the brave recruit staggered, Jean quickly rescued the chalice from the lad’s grasp and caught his arm, easing him down to the ground in a controlled fashion. It had only taken one nasty bump off the edge of the table before Artana had implemented _that_ policy.

Still, the collapse didn’t help the second recruit find his own courage. He gulped heavily, bump on his throat dancing, as Jean handed the precious Chalice back to Artana. His nerves were obviously stretched to their limit.

Artana regarded him calmly, even as Ives frowned and readied the crossbow once more. “You must drink, or forfeit your life. Only Grey Wardens may leave this room alive.” Ives knew that Artana chose her wording with care, since she had not been given the same clarity at her own Joining - but then, her situation had been as desperate as Isabeau’s was now. It was more dignified to speak simply and straight to the point, respecting his presence as a warrior. “Become our brother, or take these words to an early grave.”

Sadly, he chose the latter in the end. With a heavy sigh, Ives tightened his finger on the trigger, trying to mentally distance himself from the bolt that leapt from his weapon to take the boy’s life. Once the deed was done, the bard closed his eyes and lowered his crossbow. _Perhaps He chose not to listen. I was rather unfair._ Artana’s voice echoed in the room as she solemnly murmured a short invocation to Falon’din on behalf of the poor shemlen, again invoking wonder in him. Her faith was yet strong, even after this harrowing time away from her clan and culture.

Gently Livilla placed the worn and worried griffon on Isabeau’s barely moving chest, then turned and held out her hands, silently requesting the chalice. With a serious face, she drew in a slow breath before tipping it back, taking a mouthful and swallowing it quickly.

Ives watched her carefully even as Jean stepped forward and retrieved the goblet, but she seemed to have no particular reaction other than a wrinkled noise. “That was... unpleasant.” As she retrieved the griffon from where it lay on Isabeau, she worked her tongue around her mouth and shuddered. “Certainly that is among the most noxious of brews I’ve ever been forced to drink.”

An eyebrow each rose on both twins’ faces. _Among_ the most? Ives had never tasted anything as abhorrent as the Joining concoction. Adding yet another question to the internal list of inquiries to pursue, he pushed the curiosity from his mind as Jean gave the drink back to Artana (who was, in his eyes, _adorably_ taken aback at Livilla’s seeming nonchalance) for the final recruit.

It was a shame that the last to drink today had no true choice in the matter. Artana took the chalice from Jean and brought it to Isabeau’s lips, tipping her head to aid her in taking a sip from the silver goblet. Silence and bated breath permeated the room as they all hoped and feared simultaneously what effect the liquid would have on the woman who but seemed to be in peaceful slumber. The silence was broken when Isabeau suddenly gasped, her hand lashing out and knocking the vessel from Artana’s hands.

Another gasp rang through the room before Livilla rushed to her friend’s side, taking Isabeau’s head between her hands as the latter started to convulse wildly. She began to murmur encouragement, yet this time, the words were not Tevinter, but _elvish._ Ives blinked, then looked at Artana, noting the narrowed eyes with which his beloved regarded the woman who looked entirely human beneath her scars. Still... _A former Tevinter slave who speaks elvish... The slave raiders often raid the coasts up north. Ah, Livilla, you do not hail from Orlais, that is_ most _certain._

He was distracted from his thoughts as it became clear Isabeau’s convulsions were getting worse, not better. In fact, even as he began to offer yet another prayer to the seemingly uncaring Maker, he heard Livilla’s tone change from comforting words to the more stately pace of an invocation, and her hands moved to hover over Isabeau’s heart.

A faint white glow began to emanate from her hands, covering first Isabeau’s torso and then spreading over her entire body. Ives took an inadvertent step back; he recognized magic - _powerful_ magic, at that - when it was right in front of him. _A former Tevinter slave who speaks elvish and is a mage... Maker, could Montfort not have given us greater warning? No wonder the Tevinter agents are after her!_ The light flared once, then faded, leaving Isabeau at rest once more, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm.

After a few seconds, her eyes fluttered open. Though she seemed to be fighting a powerful lethargy, she met Livilla’s eye and whispered weakly, “Martin?”

Livilla nodded.

“I am not dead?”

With a smile, Livilla shook her head.

“Then... then I was right...”

 _Martin..._ Ives filed away the man’s name for further questioning later. _That must be the name of their little shadow - and the last person she saw before succumbing to the taint’s poison. Martin, Martin..._ The name in and of itself meant little to him without more information, and as he met Artana’s gaze, he knew without asking what his next task would be. The pair still presented far too many mysteries, and she did not like uncertainties under her command.

As for Artana herself, he was just glad to see her face intent on the questions at hand rather than in mourning. It would weigh heavily on her already to have one recruit dead at the Joining. The sad outcome occurred frequently enough to make him feel grateful that Jean would be there for her tonight rather than himself. His twin had that remarkable aura of gentility that fit into situations such as this, whereas Ives’ flowery words and extravagant declarations tended to irritate Artana. _If ever she decides to finally choose..._ Now, however, was not the time to consider it.

When Livilla finally relinquished her place at Isabeau’s side, Ives rubbed his hands together with a grin that was only slightly forced. “Well, little miracles, at the least.” Ives moved to Livilla as Jean opened the door to allow some grim faced Wardens into the Joining Room to attend to the two bodies: one to the infirmary, and the other to be taken to the Chapel for prayer and cremation after a ‘training accident’. Exchanging the briefest of nods with them, Ives arrived at her side and gingerly rested his hand on the scarred woman’s shoulder. “I think I can lift her.”

He wasn’t surprised when she jerked away from him, though she used the movement to retrieve the little griffon toy she’d dropped to the floor in her mad dash to Isabeau’s side. _You have many secrets,_ ma chérie _. I pray Isabeau is more inclined to talk than you when she awakens a Grey Warden._

Artana divided them all to tasks, the aftermath of a Joining requiring as much work as the preparation. Ives bent to retrieve Isabeau so as to take her back to the room that had been set aside for them in the part of the Keep reserved for the Grey Wardens.

One way or another, he would find what he needed.

.~^~.

Ives wasn’t sure precisely how long he’d been playing, but he knew it was at least counted in hours. He’d begun with the flute, playing until his lips chapped, and moved next to a gorgeous, twelve-stringed lute that was quite clearly an heirloom. At this point his calloused fingertips were beginning to sting, but he could go a while longer. To help himself ignore the strain he played with his eyes closed, relaxing as best he could while still stealing peeks here and again at Isabeau.

He hadn’t been entirely alone the entire time, of course. Jean had come in and with stern looks and silent gestures implored him to eat or sleep, then sighed and given up when he saw Ives was intent on his task. His lovely wood nymph had also come to see Isabeau’s progress, particularly after the other new Grey Warden had awoken, shaken and starving, from his transformative sleep. Though she had only frowned when she’d seen that Isabeau had not stirred, Artana had nodded at Ives in tacit approval of his decision to remain at her side. And of course, Livilla...

Livilla was no trouble. While she wasn’t in any way conversational, she’d been largely receptive to his presence. At the least she didn’t run him out of the room, and one time when he cracked his weary eyes open, he even caught her looking at him. It had been dreadfully hard not to smile. Somewhere along the line Livilla had decided she trusted Ives enough to leave him alone with Isabeau. He paid more attention to all of the subtle motions in Isabeau - every twitch, every frown, every bead of sweat, and how bad they were each time he stole a glance.

An oddity of Livilla was her obsession with keeping the room well-lit. Every time a candle died, she’d run out to get a new one to replace it, until eventually a blond manservant with a resigned expression on his face had followed her back, put a box of unused candles next to her bed, and left. The room glowed with the light of the middle of the day, and no shadows were allowed anywhere near the slumbering woman.

He was beginning to feel like he was witnessing a Fade-tale.

It helped to ease the chill, at any rate. The suite was stonewalled, as was the rest of the Keep, with just two thin windows on the western wall to let in the light as it changed over the course of his vigil. Though the ever-increasing candlelight made it harder to tell, Ives _thought_ it was approaching sunset - which meant that he’d been here for almost a full day. _No wonder I am so weary._ Yet he continued, though he allowed the long notes in his music to stretch a bit more than usual to spare his fingers as much as he could.

When the door opened one more time, he glanced up and blinked with surprise as Marie bustled into the room. Quickly she directed the blond man who accompanied her to put his burden on the table next to Isabeau, and Ives only had a moment to recognize the typical post-awakening feast of the largest leg of poultry the Keep could find - an ongoing joke of long-forgotten origin - and a strong cordial to take the taste of the Joining away. After that, Marie placed herself in front of Ives, holding a glass of water to his lips until he reluctantly drank. Granted, it _did_ taste most marvelous on his parched throat, and it gave him an opportunity to wink and blow a kiss at her when he was done, but he would have preferred to have drank with Isabeau. Yet Marie was a stern mistress, making sure he drank the full glass before settling it on the floor next to a pitcher with more water in it.

Marie leaned over and patted his cheek. “The beauty always awakens at sunset or sunrise in the tales. Have faith, my lad.” The words were soft, but he saw the concern in her face, a concern that did not leave when she straightened and turned to embrace Livilla. Quiet but firm, she put her arm around Livilla and pointed to the door and whispered to her at length. With a sigh and a nod, Livilla stuck the griffon toy of mysterious origin beneath the pillow on her own bed - hind end sticking out, Ives noted with amusement - and went with Marie.

Not long after that, the first signs of fluttering eyelashes danced in one of his stolen glimpses. His guess was that she must have been in the throes of The Nightmares - the ones that all Wardens experienced from their Joining until the very end. A faint, grating song, dark ruins, and hordes of vile, gruesome Darkspawn, calling you to join them...

His eyes opened again as he heard the blanket shift. Isabeau was shivering as she awoke, and he saw that her eyes almost instantly sought out the lute, as if it were the source of her discomfort. Her reaction was so strange that he frowned, for it made little sense to him why she would shiver yet again and force her eyes closed once more. Did this Martin he’d been learning so much about play a lute as well? Was he a bard, and not simply a dark rogue lurking around the streets? These thoughts were all shattered and lost when he heard her struggle with the horrible flavor the Joining had left on her tongue, a sympathetic smile turning up his lips.

“Ah, lala, if you had but parted your lips for me _this_ time, I might have been able to wash that foul taste away for you. There is no doubt something very strong in that glass besides you, though. To the right, just there.” He watched for any sign of complications as she struggled into a half-sitting position, but saw nothing out of the ordinary for a new Grey Warden fresh out of the ‘Deep Sleep,’ as it was known. “Ah, and I might suggest you eat. If you don’t make the first move, I believe it very well may try and eat you first. I’ll simply continue to be the soothing background music - I would hate to encourage dinner without an entertaining meal.”

He wasn’t fooled when she played nonchalant, the little tickle of pink on her otherwise drained pallor quite obvious to him. Admirably, she managed to hold the contents of her stomach down while swishing her cordial and clearing her tongue, then followed it with a shot for good measure. He chuckled, watching her take in the room - the _large_ room, with _two_ beds, as opposed to her small one, with a bunk - and how her belongings had been brought as well. The way she smiled when she noticed the griffon doll on Livilla’s bed made him surmise there might have been a purpose behind Livilla’s odd placement of the toy.

His eyebrows rose in anticipation of a question as she turned back towards him, the telltale signs on her face as she drew in a breath. Whatever she was _about_ to say stood no chance against the hunger that had just dug in on her, causing her to rather savagely attack the capon. He chuckled just in time for Livilla to enter once more and eye him suspiciously before realizing that Isabeau had woken. That clearly trumped all else in this hand, and she nearly ran to the woman’s bedside, discarding the towel wrapped around her wet hair along the way.

“Awake at last, I see,” Livilla said quietly. Ives innocently ignored the way she glared at him yet again, unwilling to give them privacy just yet. When he didn’t move or stop plucking at his strings, she shook her head and concentrated on her friend. “What do you last remember?”

Isabeau frowned as she chewed thoughtfully, and didn’t respond until the bone of the leg had been set aside and the last mouthful was swallowed. “I’m not sure. I--,” she ventured, then threw Ives a look that startled him. “I remember this lout taking advantage of my innocence.”

And the startle continued! His fingers struck a sour chord on the lute. Shocked or not, he hadn’t made such a mistake in most of a decade, so he could only hope it wasn’t too obviously done for dramatic effect. “I would _never!_ Why, I can’t even think to know when or what it is that has you so misguided, _chérie_. I was positively saintly the past days with such lovely ladies as yourself moved to new quarters, _so_ much closer to my own. I _barely_ so much as kissed you!” He huffed a sigh, shifting his head as to toss his hair in a theatrically aggrieved manner.

“ _I_ seem to remember,” Isabeau continued despite his outburst, and he pouted grandly as he saw Livilla roll her eye, “some tongue, and wandering fingers.” Her hands had tightened around the blanket enough that Ives could see it bunch, her knuckles white and manner guilty to Livilla’s narrowed eye. Ives knew there was more, but she dismissed it with a whisper. “Nothing worth remembering, really.”

That was best left without lingering, so Ives began to pluck an upbeat tune on the lute, blowing a raspberry with his tongue. Jester was a role that suited him rather well for the purposes of espionage. “Well, then I didn’t remember it either. I’m sure softer breasts exist _somewhere_ in the world.” He was glad, honestly, that she’d received the memo that he took well to teasing. As far as being a martyr went, it was among the easiest things to offer in the name of a laugh. If only the negative emotion lingering in the air wasn’t so much stronger than what his bardic tune could manipulate, he would have aimed to have her dancing.

Sadly, in the interest of the Keep, Ives just couldn’t allow them to continue teasing him forever - or was it the other way around? His upbeat music was serving part of its purpose in that the tension in the room had relaxed a trifle, yet he was no closer to his true goal than before. Isabeau had fainted in this Martin’s presence - and it wasn’t entirely the fault of the tainted letter. “Ah, lala,” he sighed, truly hating to have to ask it. “Much as I hate to darken the mood once more, surely you can agree that there remain matters to be discussed.” He sighed as the mood shifted once more. “To start with: Martin?”

Isabeau grimaced and looked away. “He’s not evil, you know.”

Livilla snorted and let go, moving to sit on her own bed. “This we have argued about already, and we will never agree. I do not understand how you can fear him so, and yet wish him no harm.”

No answer came from Isabeau as she simply folded her hands and studied them intently.

With a shake of her head, Livilla turned to Ives, addressing him directly for the first time. “His name was Martin de Brienne, though he came not to the name by birth. He was taken in by Isabeau’s parents. Later, he left, taking the name Martin duGuerre. I did not meet him until only a few years ago, and Isabeau refused to even--”

“Don’t!” The warning was issued with a commanding tone, and the two women exchanged a tense, wordless glare, the closest to open rancor between them Ives had ever witnessed.

Interestingly, in this matter Livilla surrendered first. “I... Perhaps I have a bias, since our first meeting involved an attempt to kill me.”

“Well, that _would_ cause a bias,” Ives supposed, somewhat amused despite the serious nature of the conversation. “So why does he hunt you, and how did it bring you, ultimately, to the Wardens? We are not the most … average of havens for any but criminals, after all.” He held back from saying more, since he’d made a rather large leap from knowing Martin plagued them to assuming the rogue had something to do with their entrance into the ranks of the Wardens.

Isabeau became even more interested in the blanket in her hands, and Livilla frowned as she sat down on her own bed, back rigid. “He didn’t chase us into your welcoming arms, lout. For all his persistence, he’s nothing we can’t handle perfectly well on our own.”

Ives glanced around at the many candles Livilla had lit, then back to her, eyebrow raised. “Ah, _oui,_ how foolish of me to think you were but helpless maids. However, you must admit that perhaps affairs have reached a point where you can no longer rely only upon yourselves? After all, you are not alone, not anymore.” When no answer was forthcoming, he altered the melody of his lute once more, from lively to soothing. A slight movement from Isabeau drew his attention, and he noticed her eyes were now on his fingers, as if entranced, and he was fairly certain it was not the music that held her so. “So, if Martin cannot be spoken of then perhaps we should speak of other trifles. Dead bodies, perhaps, in front of the Keep? That, I assure you, is _not_ a usual occurrence.”

Isabeau grimaced. “I would wager that was Martin,” she sighed. “He has an odd sort of... jealousy, if you can call it that, towards us.”

“You mean he doesn’t want anyone else to hunt us, not even my--” Livilla quickly bit off her words, shooting Ives a quick glance.

“Your former Master?” Ives guessed, and Livilla’s glare proved him correct. “So, if he cannot hurt you, no one can? An odd stance, to be sure. There must be quite the history.” Again the music shifted, this time from soothing to poignant.

Isabeau swallowed harshly and finally looked at Ives rather than the obviously _fascinating_ blanket. “Until I was seven, he was the one I loved most in the world,” she whispered. “Martin de Brienne... my parents accepted him into their care when he was but an infant, before I was born. They never treated him like anything but a son, and I was a truly beloved sister to him.”

“Hm.” Ives considered this information and drew from his experience where he imagined she was leading him. “This particular arrangement has caused heartache in many an Orlesian family, _oui_? Not at all to call your situation orthodox... Clearly, your case is a most exceptional overabundance of heartache. Did he ... covet the fortune, resent your birth? Or was he scorned somehow and took a turn for the worse? Whatever you will tell, I will listen.”

“I could wish for it to be so simple,” she whispered. “I could wish I knew exactly what _did_ happen. When I was seven, he-- My parents--” Her eyes filled with tears, and she looked away. Ives frowned, trying to imagine what could be so terrible, but waited for Isabeau to continue. “I woke one morning and found my parents dead, and Martin gone. The servants did what they could, but--”

Livilla moved to Isabeau’s side when she broke down, gathering her friend into her arms. “Nothing can ease the broken heart of a lost family, lout,” she said softly. The nickname had lost any sting and seemed more habit than anything. Her hand smoothed over Isabeau’s hair as she murmured empty words to her friend, trying to calm through tone and touch. “Isabeau thought him dead, too, until he reappeared years later - to try to kill me. As I said, it wasn’t the best of introductions.”

Allowing a smile to come to his lips, Ives shook his head. “No, I suppose it was not.” He had let the music lapse, sensing he would not need it for a short while, and gratefully put the lute down so he could stretch his hands. He managed to keep the wince of pain from his face as his fingertips started to complain at his overly ambitious performance length. “And you know nothing of what happened to him in the interim?”

“I-- No, _I_ do not.” The nuance puzzled Ives, hinting that Isabeau might know more, but Livilla gave him no opportunity to query as she continued, “Well, not _certain_ knowledge. We know he has a Master, and that Martin obeys the man without question. I do not know the extent of his operations, but we saw him only infrequently. I always assumed he traveled extensively.” Isabeau, whose sobs had subsided, stirred as she wiped the tears from her face, but said nothing. “And honestly, he was not our main problem in Montfort. He was an annoyance, particularly for me, but no more than that.” Again, Ives sensed some half-truths mixed in with the truth, but thought it wiser to let her speak. Even half-truths held information for a discerning mind. “No, it was not Isabeau’s past that haunted us in Montfort.”

He nodded as he made the leap of logic himself. “I’ve heard that Magisters can be quite insistent in regaining their property, when it is valued enough. More fools, they, to think they can _own_ a person. Is it because you are a mage?” Ives recalled reading once that blood mages placed a higher value on thralls who were also mages, though he could not recall why.

Now it was Livilla’s turn to hesitate before answering, and Isabeau took her hand and squeezed it reassuringly. After a deep breath, Livilla replied, “In part, though that is not the whole of it.” Patting Isabeau’s hand as if to indicate she was all right, she turned to Ives, eye narrowed in speculation. “Your hands must hurt.”

“Ah, a bit,” he said, puzzled by the seeming non sequitur. “Give me a few hours and it will pass. It is not the first time I have played for so long, though never before have I exerted myself for such an enchanting audience.” His eyelid dropped into a tired, but playful, wink.

She grunted. “I wish you wouldn’t--” Stopping herself with a shake of the head, she focused her gaze on Ives’ hands. Without any warning, the black of her eye suddenly turned white, and an intense sensation of pins and needles swept through his arms. He gasped as goose pimples rose, and rubbed at his forearms vigorously to diminish the sensation. As her eye faded back to black, he realized that his hands were completely healed, and more - even the overtaxed muscles in his shoulders and his strained voice felt completely refreshed.

Stretching his arms overhead, he marveled at how _good_ the motion felt, when just a few seconds before he had been silently plotting an extended soak in the mineral springs in the Deeps of the Keep. “ _That_ is _remarkable_. I do not know how powerful our mages here in the Keep are, but I’ve rarely experienced a healing executed with so little effort for such a phenomenal result. Beauty must enhance your--”

 _“Stop_ that,” she suddenly snapped. “I am perfectly aware of my appearance. You don’t need to--” Isabeau’s gentle touch halted her words, and after another moment of silently glaring at Ives, her face twisted. Turning to her friend, she buried her head in Isabeau’s lap, unaware of the way Isabeau seemed to measure Ives with her eyes.

“Ever since she arrived at Montfort, they have been after her,” Isabeau said quietly. “I _personally_ suspect that Martin actually aided in intercepting some of them, but always there were at least one or two a year. Last year--” She paused as Ives began to work at the buckles and clasps of his armor, but continued when he nodded for her to continue. “Last year, Giselle said they were more persistent. A group of them managed to get past the outer defenses and infiltrate the living area of the Keep. Two Wardens were killed in the struggle, and Giselle decided that it would be better for Montfort if we were--”

“Someone else’s problem?” Ives raised an eyebrow as he set his bracers on the floor and began working at the laces that kept his shirt closed. “At Montfort, if I recall correctly, the Keep is far enough away from the city proper that there is a bit of laxity regarding security, I would imagine. And it is in the middle of Orlais - hardly a target for invaders! Vigilant against Darkspawn, but not much more.”

“Precisely. Val Royeaux is better suited for someone to... disappear.” She sighed. “Or so we had hoped. Now I wonder if they just wanted to scare us out. Our journey was designed to prevent anyone from intercepting us, but once in the city...”

“They must have had an agent here already, watching the gate,” Livilla said, voice soft at first. Clearing her throat as she sat up, she added, “Since everyone has to go through the Sun Gates, they would only need one agent to watch for us here.”

“Pity you did not know any smugglers,” Ives mused. “There is always another way into any city. Even Kirkwall. And since the agent has been disposed of, no matter the source of said disposition, we can hope that at least that danger is now less pressing - for a while.” Tugging the last of his laces aside, he removed his leather vest and began tugging his shirt out of his waistband.

“What are you _doing_ , lout?” Livilla demanded in an exasperated tone, though apparently her irritation was mild enough that she did not take her eye off of him.

“Ah, but I must do my part to lay to rest these silly insecurities which afflict you.” The tunic came off in one smooth motion, and the goose pimples returned with a vengeance as the cool air touched so much of his skin. He watched their eyes widen with some measure of satisfaction, even if his pride reluctantly admitted it was for an entirely different reason than if he had been, say, his far more muscular brother. As his finger lightly traced the scars - three long, parallel lines - which extended from his navel to his chest, he kept his gaze on Livilla.  “May I suggest two things? One, do not underestimate a shriek - they are most pernicious and deadly, and far swifter than you might think. And two, _ma chérie_ , do not underestimate me, mmm? Fair?”

He dropped his hand as she stood and walked to where he sat, surprised when she knelt in front of him. This close, with the light so bright, he could see each and every line on her face, noticing for the first time that some of them looked to carry on even under her hair. _Would that I could return the favor to the ones who did that to you._ Keeping his face smooth of the anger within, he said softly, “May we consider these terribly harsh glares a thing of the past? You break my heart so, and as you can see,” he gestured to the topmost point of one of of the scars, “the poor thing is already so close to the surface.”

Her eye stayed fixed on his scars, head tilting as she contemplated them. They were certainly nasty scars - the only reason he still lived was because a mage had been with them that day. With delicate fingers, she reached out and traced them, skipping between the three lines with a light touch. Finally she placed her splayed hand over his heart and moved her gaze up to meet his. He had thought her glares intense, but now he almost felt as if he couldn’t breathe before the weight now upon him through the eye contact. “Very well, lout. No more harsh glares. But,” and here her hand balled into a fist before leaving his chest as she rose to her feet, “do _not_ pretend that I am beautiful.”

With that, she left the room.

Isabeau, meanwhile, looked to the door which Livilla had left open behind her. “She... she doesn’t like to be called pretty. In fact, the only man she’s ever taken to her bed was blind. I wonder that she will ever accept those words from anyone.”

Ives shrugged and began the process of restoring his clothing. “One day, she will see that I am not lying when I say I see her beauty. The heart is a most powerful thing - next to words, that is - and I firmly believe one should only say what they believe to a friend. Call me an old romantic.”

“Oh, I’ll call you more than that,” she said lightly, a bit of her humor returning.

“Ah, lala, surely you do not seek to wound me with your cruel, cruel words!” he protested. “I am but a humble--” Ignoring the snort of disbelief, he persisted. “-- _humble_ man who seeks to help his fellow Wardens whenever possible.”

Her face froze. “Fellow--” Ives grinned as she glanced around the room, truly _registering_ the fact that she and Livilla now each had large, comfortable beds instead of a bunk - in a room with a window, no less, a luxury to which recruits were certainly not privy - before turning back to him with a look of wonder on her face. “I thought-- well, I’m not quite sure _what_ I thought when I woke up, aside from that horrid taste and wondering why you were here.” She bit her lip. “What happened?”

His expression softened as he moved to sit next to her on the bed. She deserved to know all he could tell her, and so he put his arm around her and began to weave the tale of what had happened as a result of that cursed paper.

And outside the open door, the shadows waited.


	4. The Noble Knight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is a day of mourning and reflection for Jean Durante, yet the shadows refuse to leave him - or his friends - alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to our fantastic beta readers, Mille Libri and ShebasDawn!

 

 

* * *

_The lance drew closer, the fierce drumming of hooves enough to throw even the most experienced of warriors into an anxious frenzy. Though the dusky blue ribbon danced in his sights along the haft of the lance, there was something in the air, a tang of ominence. Something was simply_ wrong _. His intuition proved true - his opponent's lance slipped, its angle changed, and the wound that followed seared and strained unlike anything he had felt before._

Jean woke with a start, clutching his right shoulder. Though the pain still echoed from that near-crippling wound most of a decade ago, it was not the source of the hot tears that dripped from his weary eyes. He sighed, looking to the window, then to the vacant bed on his right, and again to the window. The night had not been what he could call restful, and now it was nearly dawn. Ives hadn't returned, which likely meant his business with Artana the previous evening had extended to the morning - a not unusual occurrence. Wicking the tears one more time with his calloused thumb, he resigned himself to waking and tossed aside his tangled blankets.

Normally he would be sure his bedroom was in proper order before leaving - at the least more so than to lovingly adjust the small prayer book on his nightstand, fingers lingering over the dusky blue ribbon which he used as its bookmark. Normally he would prepare himself for a brisk morning routine of some sort to keep himself spry. Today he could only watch the sun rise between the buildings of the Orlesian skyline and see _her_ face in the beams. Today he dressed ritualistically, drawing finery from the dresser top where his brother had left it neatly folded for him. It all took so much longer than it should, his usual energy and lust for life left in the Fade upon his waking.

At breakfast he ate little, and his smile was a practice of habit. Recruits and fellow Wardens asked him to sit and chat or to engage in sundry exercises in the courtyard, but Jean had retreated into his own mind. It took deliberate prodding to get a response from him, until he finally apologized and excused himself from the room. So listless was he in his own motions that it even earned him a concerned call of "Where are you sneaking off to?" even if he wasn't really 'sneaking' anywhere.

Even Isabeau, though receiving by far the most genuine smile he'd offered that morning, got very little from him when she requested a moment of his time in the hall. In the days since her Joining, she'd begun to come out of her shell, often eating lunch with Jean and dinner with Ives. Jean was aware that Ives had commented on the absence of lurking shadows of late, but at the moment, such an observation meant little to him. Still, Isabeau seemed far more relaxed than she had been since her arrival - at least, until she got a good look at his face.

Her hand settled on his arm as she looked up at him, a line appearing between her eyebrows. Early as it was, she was obviously returning from the baths, since her long hair was wet and only loosely braided, framing her face with several straggling tendrils. Her dark blue eyes met his as she squeezed his arm gently. "Restless night?"

"I expected it," he replied without elaboration, looking beyond her - admittedly an easy thing to do with her diminutive height. He didn't move past her, but he wasn't giving her his full attention, either. "How have you been getting along with your Brothers and Sisters here?"

"A little better now that I leave my room once in a while," she said with a smile, but it faded as she kept looking at his face. "Livilla spends most of her time in the apothecary, but I've tried to get out and about. Ives even took me into the city once or twice." She frowned, then shook her head. "He was a perfect gentleman, of course, but perhaps I should have asked you to come along. Sometimes he's a bit... distracted."

He understood that perfectly well. More than just for the fact his thoughts were elsewhere in this precise moment, there were sound reasons for either twin to pay more attention than others to what happened in the city of Val Royeaux. Their family had spent decades perfecting the art of being untouched by the Orlesian Game that swallowed so many other legacies whole. "I apologize, then, because I am no better myself right now. I will have to offer... ah... what is the word," he murmured, looking down at his feet for a moment as he pondered it, "I'll have to make..." At least he'd gotten her to laugh lightly, he supposed, with his bumbling over vocabulary.

"You _need_ do nothing. I'll just try again at a later time, perhaps with someone else. I just thought- Well, it doesn't matter, I suppose. Although..." Suddenly she seemed a bit nervous. "Well, I actually stopped you to ask if you had time this afternoon for some training. I've sparred against some of the other Wardens, but..." A smile crossed her face as she looked up at him, a mixture of embarrassment and pride. "They all told me to ask you. Apparently you are the only one for me."

He saw a blush tinge her cheeks even as a light frown pulled at his own lips. Though she continued on to excuse her slip by saying, "Ah, I mean, you are the only one who is above my skill level," it had still unearthed a memory, one which today inflicted more pain than it might have otherwise. Unaware of his reaction, she bit her lip and looked down. "But you are so tired, I wouldn't want to exhaust you even more."

"We will spar," he promised, reaching out to clap his hand reassuringly on her shoulder. "If not today, then tomorrow. You are right... it is not my best day."

Her hand settled on his and squeezed lightly. "Today only if you are able," she agreed, "though I admit, I would truly appreciate if it could be today. I promised Livilla I'd help her in the apothecary tomorrow afternoon. I'll reserve the training salle in the second hour after general lunch." Again that hesitant smile, but it faded quickly as her hand moved to his arm once more. "And if you can't make it, no need to find me. I can work alone. I've become accustomed to it." She hesitated, then strained up on her toes and lightly pressed her lips to his stubbled cheek. "Be well, Ser."

For the half moment that lingered, Jean stood in a strange state of stunned confusion, trying to decipher meaning in the action. Then, as if her own boldness had embarrassed her, she hurried past him and down the corridor, ducking out of sight around the corner. That left him worried there was more to it than he was open to receive, his relationship with Artana a treasure to him in this dark era of Mage-Templar politics that kept Val Royeaux in constant tension.

After escaping the conversations at every corner within the Keep, Jean was in no rush. The carriage for hire at the nearby city gate was passed despite his finery, and he spent as much time watching the sky as his feet. As a memory took hold of him at a particular street corner he slowed, a hand sliding to rest on the pendant at his neck, the two rings flanking it turned by his thumb. With a shuddering breath he looked to the side, realizing he'd found his way to his intended destination, a store trusted as much for its discretion as the quality of its merchandise. A plain brown package had been prepared for him, which he accepted from the blonde clerk with barely a nod before departing, not wishing to linger.

At the heart of the city sat the Grand Cathedral. None other was like it in all of the many lands of Thedas, and nowhere else did the sound of the Chant pour forth nearly every hour of every single day. The scent of incense from the Cathedral permeated even the pavestones of the courtyard, and the gentle, soothing sounds of the large fountain featuring a weeping Andraste would usually demand a moment of awe and relaxation. Today he passed both by, and was likewise unappeased by the hypnotic rays of light off the glimmering, fragmented colored glass of the towering clerestory.

His route was automatic: to the eastern side aisle along the main transept, to one of the largest, grandest, and most beautifully decorated of all the private side chapels within the Cathedral. The Durante family chapel housed five large urns holding the ashes of many Durantes, following the most traditional form of interment in Thedas. Its walls were decorated with gilding and columns and crests, but each of the three walls featured oil paintings at least twice as tall as a human.

Jean finally did pause to look up into the oil eyes of 'Maferath' - or, that is, Henry Durante, painted in effigy of Maferath. Though his long blond hair no longer appeared in the family today, the brilliant blue of his eyes remained a constant, it seemed, as every generation at least one Durante came into the world with them. Another melancholy sigh echoed, and Jean moved to collect a prayer candle from a nearby supply. When he returned to the hassock before the marble railing, he placed the candle reverently and then brought his hand over his heart, smiling sadly at a name carved into the side of the third urn. For all the strain he had today, it was nice to simply have time alone to think.

Perchance, to mourn.

After singing the first set of prayers from the Chant he so cherished, he retrieved the plain brown package and opened it, removing from it a bundle of purest white flowers to rest before the urn. Tears welled without shame, the sad smile returning as his hand dragged back along the marble, fingertips instinctively finding and tracing the name which consumed his thoughts this day.

 _Cateline Durante_. Just the name brought forth the memories: her smile, her laugh, the way her cheeks flushed when they kissed... She had been so vibrant, so _alive_ , that even her memories made it seem like he had seen her but yesterday. The wound was still so fresh, for all that it had been inflicted years before. His fingers lingered on the dates next to her name. In his native tongue, he murmured, _"Too few years for such a remarkable soul."_

"Ah, such a touching sight," a voice said mockingly from some distance behind him, its lilting Orlesian accent cutting through the silence. "And here I thought you had already forgotten her face. You were quick enough to replace her in your bed, no?" He made a _tsk_ ing sound. "And with the same woman who shares your brother's bed. What did the children think of that, I wonder? Ah, what would your dear, dead wife think, hmm?"

Jean's head just slightly shifted to the side. He narrowed his eyes and wiped them with his right hand, the gauche words having certainly gotten his attention. "I beg your pardon?"

"Your lovely Cateline - you do remember her name? Ah, so so, I see you do. Such a delicious woman, I'll admit that." A sigh echoed, as if from a fond memory. "Hard to believe she was so difficult to kill - those eyes, those legs, those breasts... Truly delectable." A figure stepped from a shadow a fair distance from Jean. " _Enjoyable_ , one might say. I certainly did."

Jean's memory was as pure as his anger, and this nameless, insulting … _bastard_ had managed to invoke the wrath he apparently sought. The warrior stood, a hand still on the railing of his family's chapel, gripping tightly enough that his knuckles were white. His posture was proud, though - not subject to his rage, nor to this stranger's desires. "Say what you will. They are lies. None had honor more impeccable than Cateline, and I nursed her in her dying fever. I know the truth that you cannot touch."

"Do you? You were away so very many nights when you were a Chevalier, surrounded by strong men... why should she not have done the same?" The man's face was too distant to be seen clearly, but it was not hard to imagine a leer from _that_ tone of voice. He moved closer to Jean, the dim light glinting off the dagger hilts that poked over his shoulders. "I suppose you wouldn't be able to confront such thoughts. Too painful, no?" Stopping just short of the light, his face remained indeterminate, his eyes nothing more than a vague gleam. "Of course, administering the poison at just the right time in the pregnancy... it is an art, you see, to ensure it appears natural. My Master was quite insistent. A pity the child had to be sacrificed... well, one of them, anyway." Light glinted off his teeth as he grinned, apparently enjoying Jean's obvious distress. "Your cries were heartbreaking, young Jean. Quite heartrending, in very deed."

"By your words I can tell that you have no knowledge whatsoever of matters of the heart," Jean seethed, pulling his hand from the marble railing lest he find a way to crack it, or his hand - whichever came first.

The man shrugged, as if indifferent to whatever reaction his words might provoke. "Believe as you will. I am not concerned with your opinion of my words or my character. I am here merely to offer you some friendly advice." A half-step brought his lower body into the light, black cloth visible and nothing more. "Keep my angel alive. Should she die, that is the day that you and your precious Wardens protecting her will perish. It is good you performed the Joining, as I intended." He didn't elaborate on that statement, but cocked his head. "Livilla, however... Well, that is a matter for another day."

He bowed, showing a body clad entirely in that tight black cloth and black hair pulled into a queue, but still no face or features to pick him out of a crowd. "Enjoy your wife's memory, good ser. For that is all you have left." He held up a familiar small book of the Chant, a common enough sight in the hands of a noblewoman. Even from that distance, Jean could see the dusky blue ribbon still inside of it, remembered touching it before leaving his room, and balled his hands into fists to think that this _creature_ dared defile Cateline's beloved treasure with his vile touch. " _All_ you have left."

Before Jean could do more than take two steps towards him, the man stepped back into the shadow, disappearing from sight.

"Coward!" Jean spat, halting his futile rush. "You would not speak so if you were honorable enough to face me!" The setting hadn't changed simply because his mood had, of course. He was practically shouting in the middle of the Chantry, but the thought never reached his mind as he moved a hand to his chest. Panic had set in when he'd recognized Cateline's Hours in the other man's hand, and what he said about having _nothing_ left...

The rings were still there, and Jean did seem very relieved. Much as the intruder had been wrong about Cateline's character, he was mistaken in his final declaration as well. Jean still had the rings on the necklace that was never removed, he still had his memories, and he still had the children. The illumination was priceless, hand-penned, and, yes, a memorandum that had been a great source of comfort to him since her passing, but it wasn't the only thing he had of Cateline in his life.

It took until he had mentally walked through some of those memories before he was able to finally loosen his now painfully aching fists, eyes squeezing shut as he considered the storybook romance that bards sung of in love songs decades before he ever met his beloved wife. Maybe receiving her favor had doomed him to be injured in that joust, but he'd always remember her perfect face above him when he woke. He would fight to the death for his dear Cateline, but now the threat was also on Artana, and only a fool would make the mistake to assume he would not do the same for her.

" _Nothing can confuse my memory of you, dear Cateline_ ," he whispered in Orlesian, resting his hand once more on the urn. " _I never looked away, and I know in my heart, neither did you. I will not rest if anyone dares believe elsewise_."

.~^~.

It was afternoon before he returned to the Keep, head down, eyes on his feet as he walked. For Cateline to have been insulted so badly was crime enough, but he hadn't even been able to defend her... That weighed more on his shoulders than his full plate armor, and felt hotter on his chest, too. He pushed open the gates to the Warden's Keep with little more than a nod to the watch, then moved with muscle memory towards the door.

And the eyes in the shadows followed him.

Jean paused, the glint of a blade in the light catching his eye and drawing it to a woman training in the afternoon light. It wasn't Isabeau, but it was reminder enough, and he looked up to see where he was. With a detour, and a peek to the sky in the name of guessing the hour, he found his way to the salle she'd described that morning.

"Isabeau... I apologize. I had nearly forgotten." Though at first his attention seemed... elsewhere than the prospect of a spar, he was swiftly realizing it was perhaps the best idea he'd heard all day. "Sometimes I think I forget that I am a warrior foremost. Times like this, I want nothing more to remember it. Am I too late for our spar?"

She smiled and shook her head. "I was just adjusting my new armor." Her hands reached up and wiggled at her breastplate with its griffon one more time, and she took a few firm steps in a small circle before ending up facing him again. "It's been some time since I've had new armor. I haven't grown all that much in the last few years, after all." If she hadn't been so determined to avoid eye contact, Jean wouldn't have noticed how quickly her eyes darted around the room, moving over the racks of weapons and shields that lined the walls. "I'm a little ashamed to admit that I'm not sure which swords or shields I can choose from in this salle - I've just been using the practice swords in the open practice arenas. In Montfort, everyone kept their weapons in their quarters, but it was a much shorter walk. I didn't even know some of them were personal weapons until yesterday. Which swords are available to use during practice? Eventually I'll get one myself, but-" her lips thinned as she glared at the nearest sword rack, "-apparently the smiths in Val Royeaux think _pretty little girls_ don't need their own weapon."

"Did they say that?" Jean wondered in disbelief, shaking his head. "I think you have not met the right smiths, then. I hope none of them were apprenticed by the Durantes. We would have hopefully taught them better." _Though Bernard_... Pushing thoughts of his father well away, Jean gestured to the right side of the salle, farthest from the gate. "Those placed farther away, in better cover, are the weapons that Wardens own. The ones closer to the street are the ones that are available for general use." He moved towards the first racks he described to gather his own sword and shield, the gilding making both stick out against the steels, coppers, and even wooden construction shields along the row. "I would offer you my brother's, but they would be useless to you. I was hoping to train properly, rather than you play around with daggers. Take one of the unassigned ones."

She nodded and began working through the racks he had indicated as 'available weapons', testing each blade for weight and balance. Despite her height, she was able to easily heft even the heaviest of swords, though the frowns when she put all the blades back indicated that they did not _feel_ right. When she reached the last rack and put her hand on the hilt of a rather beautiful longsword, however, she froze. Her whole body tensed for a moment as her free hand balled into a fist, and he heard her swift intake of breath from across the salle.

Slowly she pulled the sword from the rack and inspected it meticulously. It seemed to be a fine weapon - finer, in fact, than many of those belonging to other Wardens - with a long, elegant blade offset by a tastefully beautiful yet solid hilt which seemed to fit perfectly in her hand. As she quickly swung the sword and executed a few maneuvers to test it, he realized not only did it seem to be perfectly suited for her, but that she was likely every bit as skilled as she had claimed, if not more.

It was a shame he couldn't enjoy that thought more. It was distracting that despite how well it suited her, her face was tense, and when the blade swung to a halt, she reversed her grip on the hilt so she could bring it closer to her face for further scrutiny. And the entire time, her other hand had never relaxed from the tight fist it had made upon finding the sword. Jean moved closer, his own body reacting to her tension by gaining some of his own.

"I have never seen this blade before now. Is it... a family heirloom of yours?" As good an explanation as any. If it was bequeathed to her by mother or father, it would have the potential to be a painful arrival on the weapon racks, judging by what Ives had confided in him.

"My father's sword is being held for me elsewhere, but more for the memory than for future use. He was as tall as you, though not as broad in the shoulders." Her hand finally unclenched and reached up to lightly run her fingers down the unmarred length of the sword blade. "Fresh from the anvil," she sighed, then looked at the hilt once more before quickly swinging it about and settling it into her grip. "No, I daresay the man who left this blade for me knows exactly the nature of the gift and how it would be received." She turned to him, though she still didn't quite meet his eyes as she looked at the shields, pointing to one rack in particular. "So, any of those shields are available?"

After his day thus far, Jean did not press her despite not being satisfied with her explanation. Instead, he turned to face more of the rack she was already standing near and gestured widely. "Any with a Griffon. Maybe one sized for an el-..." Quite abruptly he stopped, his mind sharply changing on the matter of what he'd intended to say, and his ears flared red with bashfulness. Though her height was diminutive, he felt it impolitic to highlight the fact that she stood shorter than an elf. "I'll fetch one for you," he said instead, using the opportunity to tromp away, unaware of the way that she smiled. When he returned she again scrutinizing the blade, and he was glad to offer distraction.

"Will this do?" It was a targe, but elven-sized. It may have been a close call to avoid the mention, but that didn't mean the thought hadn't remained with him. "A smith would be able to tailor it to you. Wardens are familiar with scavenging rare finds, yes? I think in the Keep, our smith deals with reforging more than new." He hefted his own sword and shield and felt the pull of fabric over his broad shoulders with a slight frown. "I would prefer not to tear this shirt, though... would it insult you for me to fight without one? Else, I might need a few moments to change. " He glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the Keep, trying to calculate how long it would take to switch out his clothes.

"No!" came the reply, and when Jean looked back at her, she bit her lip as if a bit surprised by the outburst. "I mean, no, it would not insult me." Her eyes darted not to the Keep, but to one of the corners of the salle, and moved away just as quickly, making eye contact for the first time since he'd arrived. A smile lit her lips that seemed a trifle forced as she added, "As long as I needn't follow suit." The words hung there for a moment, and then her cheeks reddened as she seemed to realize what she'd actually _said,_ and worse, what the words implied. Quickly taking a step back, she turned her attention to her shield as she cleared her throat. "Ah, I mean... it shouldn't matter in combat, no?"

In true mutual awkwardness, her comment forced him to blurt an apology and get tangled in his sleeves as he pulled his shirt over his head. Never comfortable around a lady's blushes in the first place, his unwitting contribution to her unease began a flush of his own. "Ah, I did not ... I mean, I am sure that - ah, no matter your choice of attire you are more than capable of defending yourself. Or the opponent's attire... or ... lack thereof..." The flush spread as an acute embarrassment spread through him. To be talking about such matters as... as _lack of dress_ with a _woman_ -! Jean stopped, cleared his throat, and draped his dress shirt over the nearby racks. "I think there is a more comfortable language for both of us. Can we use it instead?" he asked plaintively.

She nodded, lips pressed tightly against each other, and brought her sword and shield into a ready stance. With a few quick steps she approached him, and in those few steps she lost the tension that had lingered after finding the sword. Though her weapons were similar to his, her fighting style looked to involve more movement - a logical extension of her size. Though he'd fought smaller opponents, it was not a common occurrence to come against one quite _this_ diminutive, and his mind quickly turned to tactics and strategy, and thankfully away from earlier events of any sort. He did notice her eyes linger for a moment on the rings which never left the chain around his neck, and then her eyes focused on the _whole_ of him. He knew why her eyes were so intent and scrutinizing every muscle: with his shirt off, his chest was an open book for his intent. Armored opponents didn't have flexing muscles showing the lean to the right, or a tense pull to the sword.

It wasn't long before both fell into a dance of their own sorts, far detached from the bards of Orlais, and his only concern in the world was how to best provide a challenge in the duel at such an obvious penalty. He could tell in her eyes that her problems had melted away just as his own did - a reprieve with nothing more pressing than the clank of swords or the clack of shields, or their feet shifting on the dusty training ground with freedom and fluidity. As they began to sweat, their true test of each other began, as stamina and skill both were now upon the table for judgment. Though certain aspects of technique were found wanting, never did it interfere with the sheer beauty of their movements, a beauty few could appreciate or understand outside of those who themselves created it.

Both noticed, yet neither acknowledged the Wardens who began to gather around them to watch the training session. Jean had just started to pull on his second wind, though he could see that his breath was as heavy as hers, and the sweat gleaming on both was noticeable in the afternoon light. This was training, however, not combat - their match would sadly have to draw to an end before they drained themselves utterly. He'd truly needed it, and it had certainly helped. After another strike to the shield, when both stepped back to reset their stance after a bracing exchange and a solid moment of eye contact, Jean raised his sword to lay across his shield.

It was only as he began to bow and offer the match to her that he realized she was doing the same. They shared a good laugh at that, though it took its form in a tired chuckle. "Well, I see there is little I can teach you after all, Sister. Not even humility. You have trained well, and become well-balanced."

An edge of a blush highlighted her cheeks as she smiled at the compliment. "In this, perhaps." A distinct snigger emanating from a form that looked suspiciously like Ives made her smile fade and the blush darken, and Jean resisted the urge to roll his eyes. His brother could find an innuendo in _any_ comment, and in _his_ world, Isabeau's words would have been an invitation for further lessons in... other matters. He watched as her eyes darted around the room and widened before returning to meet his own with a silent plea. He was abruptly reminded that she came from Montfort, a Warden outpost dubbed a Keep more for proximity to several Deep Roads entrances than because of any large size, and that most of the people surrounding them were, to her, strangers. He opened his mouth, but no answers sprung to his lips for the problem at hand.

Luckily, his brother provided distraction, sweeping in towards them, a hand placed on each shoulder. "Marvelous!" he said. "Absolutely marvelous, my dear. Jean, do you think-?"

"She would duel you?" Jean quipped. It was far more familiar ground to provide a distraction on Ives' lead. "No, you're a-"

"Don't say it! Don't ... Ah, _oui oui_ , I suppose it cannot be denied. _A tricky bastard._ Well..."

Jean couldn't keep the grin from his face as Ives turned to their audience and held out his arms, looking among the gathered. He was a hero in his own way as he stepped forward and asked, "Well, who will?" though it was the addition of, "I think I would like to duel just now. The mood seems perfect, for some reason," that made Jean chuckle.

A motion in the corner of his eye brought him to notice that Isabeau used the distraction to slip away, and he followed soon after her so he could grab his shirt. It was none too soon, either - behind him, Ives' voice called, "Does anyone feel up to meeting the thrust of my blade?" Naturally, the Wardens - most particularly the dwarves - experienced a ripple of laughter. Just as he reached for his shirt, a second familiar voice volunteered herself to the challenge. Jean wasn't fooled, of course - Artana could make quick work of Ives any day, no matter the thrusts of whichever blade.

"Your hero, hmm?" Jean whispered to Isabeau as he stood near her, sorting out the fabric so that he could consider how to pull it on without fighting too much with his sweaty skin.

Her eyes widened as she watched him work with the shirt - without the distraction of combat, it would seem that she saw the muscles of his well-honed body in a completely different light. She quickly looked away from him, and he watched as she concentrated on how to best store her sword for the moment. She didn't particularly _look_ at anything else, she just made sure not to look at _him_. "Even a scoundrel can be a gentleman on occasion, Ser."

He was tickled enough by her bashful behavior to chuckle again, and shrugged, turning to spare her scrutiny and look towards the fight. Artana was giving Ives a fair enough chance that their spar was still ongoing, the two dancing around each other with blades glinting. "He does mean well, no matter the trouble he tends to get into. I think that he has always wished that no one had to suffer, no matter how small the... ah, what is the word?"

"Inconvenience?" she offered. Her eyes had finally settled on watching the couple in the center of the ring of people, brow creasing in concentration. "I-I wanted to thank you, Ser. It has been many years since I have fought such an able opponent. Although, I wonder if I could ask your opinion on whether it would be possible for me to train with two blades? The teacher for such technique at Montfort said I was too short." Her lips thinned, hinting that _more_ had been said, but when she looked up at him, the irritation had faded. "Sometimes I wish I were taller."

"I think height is given too much emphasis," he returned mirthfully, a little twinkle in his blue eyes that just couldn't carry the same mischief as Ives. "Look. Artana dual wields, and she is..." For a brief moment he paused, his face twisting in consideration of the best choice of words. "... Ah, not much taller than you. I recall a man, too... one that has since been Called... A dwarf - with Kal'Sharok near, we seem to always have at least one at a time. He was here when we Joined... and did not seem to even notice that his swords were nearly his own height." The memory was fond enough of the old dwarf - set into the senility associated with those near their Calling - that his smile became more pensive as he inwardly offered a moment of memorial.

"Swords, and not daggers?" She sighed. "I suppose I should concentrate on what I have before I dream of more." Her eyes followed along the motions of the duelists, and suddenly she smiled. "I've seen less intimacy inside a bedroom. What is that poem? _'And twixt their eyes move the language of the stars'..._ Your brother is a scoundrel even in combat, I see."

"Poem? I think that we will not quite be hearing poems in the air soon ..." He trailed off as the first catcalls and lewd suggestions hit the air and sighed. "To them, it is not quite as you quoted, though I am ... impressed to hear you use the words General Renaud de Fleur. I respect him greatly, and I studied the battle he wrote those words of. The champions of either side stole the entire battlefield. It ... must have been glorious, no?"

She met his eyes. "Oh, you've read de Fleur? Fath- I mean, I haven't met another who has in a very long time. I was raised by Wardens, for the most part, and they tend not to be... ah, well-read." Her smile warmed her gaze as she ignored the strangled _oof_ that suddenly came from the fierce battle taking place. "Champions of renown, but lovers of legend, is how I always thought of those champions when I was younger. Well, not _too_ young, of course. When I was old enough to... Oh, dear." A _whump_ echoed in the room, but the suggestions shouted by the Wardens suddenly became _far_ more explicit. A blush lit her cheeks again as she broke eye contact with Jean and looked to the door that led into the salle.

Her face paled as she suddenly moved towards the door, brandishing her blade and pulling a smaller knife out of a concealed sheath in the small of her back. Before she hit the door, she was running at full speed, quickly disappearing from sight down the corridor. Jean was still staring, the motion so odd and swift that he needed a moment to process it all. Weapons had been drawn - that was reason enough to rush after her.

By the time he reached her, she was holding a paper in her hands, still mostly crouched from reaching to pick it up. The words were simple and large enough that he could read them over her shoulder as he neared.

 _Accept the sword as my present to you, my angel,_ the curling handwriting said within. _Stay safe._

She proceeded to exercise her vocabulary to its limits right there in the middle of the hallway, shocking Jean just enough that his eyes widened. He didn't blame her for the reaction, but he didn't realize she knew _that_ word... Still, he was frowning, and none too pleased to see the letter himself. "That man again, yes? Or perhaps I should say boy, for if he were a man, he would face me for the insults he drew against my family today... Such a somber day, and certainly one deserving to be without his … ways." The man may have been worth far worse than that, but Jean refused to lower himself to the same level. Instead he chose to comfort her, putting his hand on her shoulder. "If I knew a way to face an assassin without another assassin, I would have moved against him already. I feel we have been forced to the defensive."

"He's good at that," she said bitterly, then paused. "Today? You saw him today?" Her hand reached to wrap around his arm. "I'm sorry. I... I know what he can be like, and I can only imagine-" Voice trailing away, she looked at the paper in her other hand, then crumpled it and stuffed it into the pouch at her waist. "I'm so sorry for _all_ of this." She wiped at her face and looked down the hall. "I thought I would be safe here. Or at least free of these... these _notes_ , and the _presents_ , and the-" Her mouth abruptly twisted, and she sank to the floor, hand dragging down his arm until it tightened around his hand.

"I just wish it would all... go away," she said wistfully. "Maker, I'm so _tired_ of it all." Tears flowed freely on her cheeks as she looked up at him. "He keeps taking away more than he could ever give. He even stole becoming a Warden from me. The final choice for it, I mean. I thought when we left Montfort that we would be leaving behind our problems, but he just-" She stopped to take a deep breath, then bowed her head. "I wish I could understand what happened to him."

Jean crouched to join her nearer the floor, his hand remaining with hers. After a moment he squeezed it more tightly, doing his best to catch her eyes with his own. "Isabeau, you were a Warden before you drank of the Joining Goblet, and you were postponed only because Artana did not want to shorten your life when it was not yet necessary. If we had Joined you when you were approved, it would have been weeks before he could poison you." Knowing his own pain today, and how he'd managed to push himself past it, he brought his other hand to theirs that were already joined and held hers more tightly between both. "All he can do is lie. He cannot make the lies truth. He cannot bother us more than we allow him to. You decided to be a Warden the first day you arrived. The Joining is a ceremony that is not worth mourning. Happiness is the only method to defeat a man such as that... the one thing he cannot have himself."

"He doesn't always lie," she whispered. "And his truth always hurts worse than any lie." She fell into him a little bit, her head resting on his chest as she heaved a sigh. "I'm sorry you were targeted. A man such as you does not deserve the pain of his lies and twisting of the truth. He has such a way of making things... personal, for lack of a better word. I don't know why he chose to hurt you, but if I could keep his attention solely upon me, I would."

"And if I could keep him away from someone so undeserving as you, you can be certain that _I_ would. I do not know that shifting his focus is so easily done, and I do not think it is the way to fix this. We will not forget what has been done, and in time we will do what we can to learn from it. For now I can only offer you help to stand, yes?" He did so first, then held his hands down to her.

She allowed him to help her to her feet. " _Merci, Ser._ " She smiled up at him wanly. "You are too kind, though. I sometimes feel as if all you hear from me are complaints." For a moment she closed her eyes, and Jean watched as she seemed to sink behind them. He knew exhaustion when he saw it, and she must have been tired in both body and soul. "Perhaps someday we may talk of something more enlightening. Renaud de Fleur, maybe?" Her gaze moved up to meet his. "But in the meantime I think a bath would be a good distraction."

It wasn't until she suddenly turned red and blurted, "Separately, of course! I, ah-" that Jean even realized that her words might possibly have hinted at something more intimate. Judging from the manner in which she took a half-step back with a horrified look on her face, however, that meaning was clearly not her intent. Her cheeks darkened to crimson with a telltale blush as she pivoted and bolted away from him.

At first he could only blink, but then he threw back his head and filled the corridor with the booming sort of laugh that _ought_ to come from him. It had been missing for far too long, for all that it had only been just half a day.

"Renaud de Fleur," he called after her retreating form. "And separate baths."


	5. Secrets Overheard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ives Durante finds himself involved in several levels of intrigue, exposing several secrets long kept in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to our fantastic beta readers, Mille Libri and ShebasDawn!

 

* * *

Ives Durante had learned quite some many years ago that he was a very persuasive man. Lying had nothing to do with how persuasive he was, nor was it that he was pushy or manipulative. If anything it was how harmless and trustworthy he appeared that gleaned him the most information. That aloof touch, the hint of a man who didn't care about anything in the world - a dumb, good-hearted fool.

Honestly, he was none of those things, one way or the other. In his early years as a bard it gave him quite a bit of trouble to be so poor at lying and have such an identity crisis. The identity came quickly when forced, but it was harder to learn something against his morals. With age he had established how to twist truths, but he still never really blatantly lied.

Well... Almost never. There were things in life that wouldn't settle for simply not being mentioned. Someone would try to find out and someone would, inevitably, find _something_ , and thus you'd have to lie if that something needed to continue in secret. He had more of these things in his life than he would like to admit, and it seemed not a single acquaintance or lover escaped such a treatment, which in turn made him doting and apologetic for guilt they had no inkling existed.

In short, no one saw Ives Durante as a threat, and hardly any could put his face to a crime other than general debauchery and public inebriation followed by indecent exposure. Perhaps that was why he found larceny to be an almost entirely risk-free endeavor. Knowing the thieves in Orlais was a fantastic way to know the nobles in Orlais, after all, even if his younger self from ten years ago would never have dreamed that his dalliance with the Thieves' Guild would elevate him so.

Yes, these days, he was the Guildmaster, the fantastical Master Thief, and it was purely because of how good he was at _not getting caught_. Artana, on the other hand ... well, her slightly lacking execution of the aforementioned was part of how their love had blossomed. After all, it was the Guildmaster's duty to see who is executing heists outside of the guild. And so one of his lies had unravelled one night when he caught Artana red-handed - mired in a lie herself - in her heavy, hooded cloak and long scarf, touting herself as 'The Ghoul' in the streets because of her nearly glowing, tainted yellow eyes.

He _had_ to tell her, and she had to admit it was silly of herself to not have told him. They began to work together, and on nights such as this, he was the most ideal Fence in all of Val Royeaux. His persuasion floated through the air gently, kissing the notes beneath the echoes of the Chant sung in city center; a lullaby meant to ensure the Wardens in the Keep behind them had their noses clean - or at the least, in the plates onto which they'd collapsed after their fifth flagon of mead. He sat back in the shadows and waited for the jingle of coin purses, his eyes closed in dedication to the world of sound - around him, above him, and from the violin tucked under his chin.

As he waited a sense of the winds changing settled in around him, so he changed his song to one more fitting. It was another several minutes from that change that the long awaited jingling of coins was heard, causing a smile to tuck at the corners of his lips. He felt her next to him, wordless, but with a presence no Warden could miss.

"Sounds like you found what you were looking for, _amour_ ," Ives commented without losing that smile, opening his eyes, or stopping his song. "No troubles, I trust?"

"If there were, it stands to reason I wouldn't have been successful," Artana pointed out in a tone that made Ives chuckle.

He finally lowered the violin after closing out his song, the bow and body both reverently set aside as he opened his eyes and let them take in the night. Her eyes really were like a cat's against the moon - or, well, a Darkspawn's, to be quite literal. "As always, you are right and I am more the fool. A shame it's so true... what would I do without you? It would be a return to the dark."

Artana shook her head, then hefted the four bags of coins. "Here. If you intend to return before dark is over, you will need to go. At least half of this gold needs to go to the alienages. The sickness that has bothered them this last week still has yet to relinquish its hold on that sector."

"Yes, the west end - I couldn't possibly forget. Duty calls, no? Here, I can trust you to put away my violin, I hope?" He traded, bags for instrument, and began to tie them to his belt one by one. "These clandestine little meetings are always so rousing. I'm tempted to steal a kiss, but your lips are buried under that scarf."

"Deliveries first," she said simply and flatly, and Ives recognized the tone of experience.

"There can't be that many doctors willing to enter the Alienage," a voice said from the shadow of a nearby building. A cloaked figure stepped into the moonlight, regarding both of them with a flinty gaze. "How much of that money is wasted as a bribe to get him to make house calls?" Livilla's narrowed eye landed on Artana. "Ives is a bard with a history of less-than-ideal perfection, but you, Commander? Why risk the Wardens and their reputation so?"

Ives held a sigh in his chest rather than let it out. He had hoped that his shadow wouldn't have showed herself until _after_ Artana had headed back into the Keep. It would have been even more convenient had she decided not to do it at all, but this... He looked to Artana, the fire already behind her eyes, and readied himself for a battle with something sharper than swords.

"When there are those who starve living in the same city as those who prepare more than they can ever eat and will not share, there is an imbalance that I cannot ignore. Especially when the majority of those are Elvhen, living wrapped around that tree, one cliff shear to protect them from sea. They know true risk every day of their lives, and through their eyes I know that there is none for the Wardens. I won't be caught."

"You _have_ been caught," Livilla pointed out, tapping a finger on her chest. "And not just once. Noble intent does little if you anger the wrong people enough. The Elvhen know _that_ lesson better than most as well." She shook her head. "It is unnecessary for you to take the risks. Let the lout do it. He's human and nobly born, if not noble, and might even be lauded for the actions in the salons of the upper crust. An elf with the markings of savages on her face that is also the Commander of an Order with a declining status... The risks loom large, Commander, and the benefits are limited. It would be more effective to escort me to the Alienage than put money into the pockets of doctors who charge extra for the 'danger' of going into such places." She took a few steps forward. "The humans don't understand the Elvhen, and you give them an excuse to hate us even more."

"You followed us," Artana accused, taking a half-step forward before she was halted by Ives, who had slipped an arm around her waist to hold her close and out of confrontational proximity.

"Tut, _amour_ , we don't want to draw attention to ourselves - it _is_ an odd hour to be discussing matters in the courtyard, after all, and her points do have some merit. I'm sure you would admit it yourself come this time tomorrow, hm? Let us favor rationality here, be done with the risk of squabble, and send me on the way with these bags." Squeezing her hip for good measure, he glanced sideways to Livilla, calculation in his eyes for that briefest of moments.

"My face can't be seen," Artana pressed in her defense, and Ives held in another sigh. "My help is needed. There are steps in place. I wouldn't wear all of this if I didn't find it important to continue my work. The money will buy them food, health, and perhaps the will to leave."

"And is ultimately selfish on your part." Livilla crossed her arms over her chest. "You risk others besides yourself to bolster your own sense of worth. Even if there are those who benefit, putting the Wardens' reputation on the line and risking further damage to the already low opinion of the Elvhen in Val Royeaux is not worth it!" She looked down and took a deep breath. "Commander. I understand the desire to help. But let those who are better suited to it take on the task." Her eye moved up to look at them. "Would you put me in an archer's mount?"

Ives knew that further incident had only been avoided thanks to Artana's practiced self-control. "I'm sure that if you _were_ put in an archer's mount, you'd be spectacular in no time at all, _cherie_. There is something to be said for the satisfaction of having your hand in the change that I like to support in this. I am taking the gold from here, and I will be the one caught with it. Not that anyone will be caught with it," he added, feeling the tension in Artana mount.

"I cannot heal them myself, so I won't stop doing at least what I am able."

"Then find those who can do what must be done and step away from the danger." Livilla shook her head. "I'm not saying that aid should not be given, but you are not the one to give it, Commander. Not here, not in this city. In any endeavor, the benefits should outweigh the risks and ego should be set aside. If I can tail you, be sure there are others who can do the same - if they have not already done so. Val Royeaux is full of shadows."

"But I know most of the shadows in Val Royeaux," Ives pointed out, adding emphasis to his words with a gesture. "In fact, I even noticed you. Surely you noticed when I suddenly began playing a sweet melody other than a lullaby? I just think it fair to say that I do as I can to be sure that my little wood nymph has her run of the town. More than even _you_ may know."

Livilla gave Ives a look of almost pity. "And the other shadow? You don't know the shadows as I do, lout. And if you say you know most of the shadows in Val Royeaux, then I pray to Dirthamen you never lose that ignorance." She shrugged. "But it does not discount the validity of what I said, Commander. You take chances that could harm us - the Wardens and the Elvhen - yet you only think of the marginal good." Her gaze moved to Ives. "Take me with you. I can do more for the sick ones than your gold can, at least."

Ives looked immediately to Artana, knowing that Livilla had said nothing to lessen the anger between them. " _Amour_ ," he began, his voice lowering to hardly a whisper. "Perhaps it is best to leave tonight alone and to reassess this all in the morning? Livilla is a healer, and the Durantes are notorious for paying our elven servants an 'excessive wage.' This would be seen as little more than me being ... me, and with her in tow, I wouldn't even need to be a sneak about it."

"You were cut off from your fortune. The gold would be obvious."

Ives chuckled and shook his head. "I don't intend to wave it about." He could tell Artana was still seething, so he shifted his hands to settle them both on her shoulders, his eyes catching hers directly. "It will be fine. We'll discuss it more later. For now, you've done a marvelous job, and you need your rest. For me?"

Artana puffed some air through her nose, but looked beyond him to the Keep. "Don't forget the orphanage. They had their taxes raised and can't make the payment without forgoing the children's food."

"Perish the thought, _amour_! Now... please?" Brandishing one of his famous pouts beyond her ability to ignore, he persisted until the amber-eyed woman stalked around both of them, neither acknowledging nor looking at Livilla as she passed.

Ives shook his head, but took Artana's silent admonition for what it was worth and set his hands on his hips. "Ah, lala. Such a busy night already!"

Livilla approached him, glancing at Artana's retreating form. "Why do you let her persist? Or are you truly as innocent of the dangers as you appear to be? If I can follow you so easily, surely others with more malicious intent can do so as well." She glanced back the way she had come, looking at the roof of a nearby building. "It is not unheard of, after all."

"Oh, perhaps I'm a fool. I suppose that I believe such good intention won't draw bad energy. Well, I also suppose that I believe there is little I've ever come up against in this city that I don't wholly believe Artana can defeat. I doubt there are many things that could cause her ill with or without a few thrilling monetary liberations in the night, no?" He smiled, moving back to his violin. Since they wouldn't be sneaking to the Alienage now, he'd need to have his expected effects. "If be a thief is what she wants to do, I think there's more harm in keeping her from doing it."

"For her, perhaps," Livilla murmured, then shook her head and refrained from further comment. "She has always been a Warden once she left her Clan, I take it? It seems as if she has rarely in a situation where she did not have some sort of protection from the effects of public opinion in a human's world." Her arms came up to wrap around her torso, and she looked ahead as they began walking down the cobbled road. "I know she has had a life of pain, but I worry she does not truly appreciate the dangers she courts for those unaware of what she does." Turning her head slightly towards Ives, she said, "You were a Court Bard. What would the reaction be if an Elvhen Grey Warden Commander were caught stealing, no matter the cause? Truthfully, now."

"I'm sure it wouldn't be pretty. Then again, you've proven your concept of beauty is quite odd and skewed, so perhaps I should say that it may be ... _complicated_." He smirked, glancing to her from the corner of his eye, noting the thinned lips and clenched hands. Amused but not particularly moved by the expression, he reached down to shift and adjust his coat so it better sat over the coin purses. "I'm sure I could smooth things over, though. It wouldn't be to Val Royeaux's advantage to oust the Wardens. With a Holy War in the air, it stands to reason that we're the only defense they'd willingly throw away to fight the things they wouldn't want to waste Chevaliers on, no?"

"No, but you are a noble and you obviously have a more... ah, egalitarian view of elves than most. What would happen to the elves that every day go to the houses of their rich masters? They would be judged. Their masters would look at them and think, _Even the rich elf stole, why should I trust you?_ It would be subtle, but it would have an effect, and one that would spread like ink in water."

"Not if it isn't to the benefit of Orlais," he said simply, cryptically, and somewhat dismissively before turning his eyes on the road before them. "What a beautiful night, isn't it? I think I can easily dismiss this as a sudden urge to perform. Not a cloud in the sky. Stars as far as you can see, like a thousand dancing fireflies over a glass-calm lake." He drew in a deep breath and sighed it back out. "And yet the brightest light of them all walks beside me, unaware of her brilliance."

Her steps faltered, as if she had stopped in place before deciding to continue on. "I- I wish you would not persist in that odd misconception of yours, lout. Or are you trying to make me return to the Keep and leave you alone to go about your work?" Her stride picked up pace a little from where she lagged behind him. "It won't work."

"I have never uttered a single syllable to you that I did not believe to the depths of my heart, you know. Actually, and it's very possible you'll hit me for this, I think it's adorable and perfectly ironic that you lecture me about ignorance when here you are, so insistent to cling to it." Though he knew it would only instigate, there was a wide grin on his face. It was only partially due to his pride in distracting her from the uncomfortable subjects that he'd so dearly wished to never have come up at all. "Incidentally, I do need to stop along the way. It won't do for the poor to have gold coins, so I'll need to ... visit an acquaintance, and change these to silver and copper."

She stopped her hand before it connected with his arm, a frown on her face as she pondered his words. Finally she whispered, "You don't know me at all, lout, if you think your words inflict no pain."

"Ah, that's not fair in the least," Ives protested, his brows drawing together and upwards as a small frown afflicted his lips. "You cannot say such as that without causing some pain in return. I mean the best, truly, and speak only the truth. Yet... It seems I can say that until my face has gone quite blue... ah, lala." He paused, a heartfelt sigh drawn slowly from his lungs. "There is beauty in this world to be found other than that which is expected, you know."

Her hood turned to him, the light from the torches which lit the alley glinting off her single dark eye even in the depths of her cloak. "And you have already found yours, have you not? I simply ask that you-" Her mouth worked silently for a moment, but words failed her. Finally she shook her head and looked ahead, her face hidden from him once more. "Martin calls me his dear dark beauty. Perhaps it is simply no more than that... association which makes me react as I do."

The frown lingered on the bard's face, but without being able to see her expression or question her too closely, he felt limited in his ability to ascertain her emotional state. _Yet again, Martin has an influence... and yet again, that influence is a torture most subtle upon his target_

Before he managed a reply, just in the moment he drew the breath to speak, she pulled her cloak tighter around herself and spoke in a far more certain voice. "At least Isabeau is safe in the Keep." Her glance behind them told Ives that more than the bard was on her mind - and no surprise, with her talk of shadows earlier and Martin's unfortunate entry into the conversation. Even in the dim moonlight and despite her scars, the line of worry on her forehead was clear.

"That she most certainly is." Following her unspoken hint to move away from the earlier topic, he forced himself to wear a charming smile. "Are you sure you don't want to stop in with me for the exchange, though? My fence is the most handsome fellow... gorgeous golden hair, eyes like endless pools..." He saw her hands tighten around her arms, and trailed away. "I ... am clearly being trite in your opinion." After awkwardly clearing his throat, he pointed to the side. "I'll just head this way, then. Back ever so soon."

Leaving Livilla behind, Ives found his way through a warren of twists and turns to the man who controlled most of the ready cash in certain areas of Val Royeaux, and was generally willing to trade it for items or different kinds of money. The blond-haired man took what Ives offered him, nodded, and disappeared into the back to change it into something less noticeable than gold.

As Ives poked around the various items carefully displayed - usually after the blood had been cleaned off - a hand reached over his shoulder and picked up a rather modest dagger. "Such an interesting place to find a son of nobility, Ives Durante."

Though the voice was grating on him as painfully familiar, Ives had a response for such a question already crafted. Even as he turned he chuckled, the words rolling from his tongue, a very easy half-truth. "Fighting Darkspawn is dangerous work. Not all the..." For a brief moment he paused, his eyelids fluttering a couple of times as his eyes picked out a familiar profile complete with scar and eye of midnight blue to tell who had approached him. "... Best items are found in the high market. And if you think it interesting for me, then I can scarcely wait to hear _your_ reasoning. I believe I've seen you ... once, in the North side of town. Why so close to the coast, my recurring stranger?"

"There is much to see and hear in such places. I have found it useful to remain aware of many, many things. My angel survives, however, so the day ended well." The knife was set back down and the man shifted, taking himself out of the bard's line of sight entirely. "Cannot two men find their paths crossing by coincidence more than once?"

Ives took what he could from what little he'd been given. The man chose to pick up a dagger to catch his attention, which might have meant it was his weapon of choice. A good a guess as any considering the proximity of a sword and a bow, but it also could have been simply that the dagger was the smallest and easiest to handle. He was a braggart; by touting the knowledge of his name, this man had clearly wanted to alert Ives to how well-informed he was. Perhaps even to threaten him, but Ives couldn't think of any particular _gain_ for him in that situation. From what he'd seen so far, this man really only put effort into endeavors that benefitted him. The oddity was the matter of what his motives were, and why they were so hard to pinpoint in a man who clearly loved to make the world aware of his expertise.

"Ah, lala, no, I think you strike me more a man of _fate_ than coincidence, _ami_. Can I call you that? We've not been properly introduced, yet I remain the only one without a name to such a handsome face." Given the man's subtle hints, however, Ives did not turn around to seek out a better view of that 'handsome face'. "Or perhaps you're not a man of fate nor of coincidence, but one after my own heart," he guessed animatedly, snapping his fingers to accentuate the epiphany. A moment later, he drooped his eyelid over one baby blue, a charming grin upon his lips. "You just can't go a week without seeing me, no, my little suitor?"

"Ah, _so so_ , has it already been this long?" A hand fell on Ives' shoulder, digging into it in such a way as to make the entire arm tingle. The other man's voice dropped into an almost intimate tone as he murmured, "Tell me, was it you or my dear dark beauty Livilla who decided to put all those candles in my angel's room? It makes certain matters quite difficult. A disappointment, to be sure, though I have other means to accomplish what is necessary." The hand moved slowly along Ives' collar, fingertips eventually settling lightly over the pulse in his neck. "I trust you continue to watch over her where I cannot? As will the ever-so-innocent Jean?"

Ives chuckled, shaking his head so as to help unseat the man's grip. His pulse wasn't under the best control at the moment, and it was hard for anyone to keep their heart calm after such a strange sensation in their arm from an admittedly threatening man. "I'm sure I haven't any idea what you're talking about, _ami_ , but it's true that she seems a touch afraid of the dark. Ah, the life of a Warden, wherein even sleep becomes your enemy. What were we talking about prior to that? I don't suppose it was your lovely eyes, was it?"

"The Fade is a most dangerous place, it is true. Not _quite_ as dangerous as me, perhaps, but dangerous." Approaching footsteps sounded in the back room, and lips were placed next to Ives' ear. "Protect her, Durante. There is nothing more precious in all of Thedas." The lips and hand moved away with a rustle of cloth, and when Ives finally whirled to face the man, he found naught but emptiness behind him.

"Your change, messere. Seen something else what interests you?"

"You... could say that, DuMere, you ... could say that." Ives turned back to face him and nodded, offering the most steady smile he could as he took the coin purses. After discussing what had been taken for a fee, Ives moved from the store, the spring consciously brought back into his step. The night was still young for him, and the Alienage needed him to get back on schedule.

.~^~.

Ives was still snoring a few hours after the sun had risen. An explosion in the courtyard woke him abruptly, a charming snort and a resounding thud following the jump that landed him half-off his bed. His hair was in the most impressive of mops, a trail of drool still gleamed on his chin, and despite looking around left and right he still had positively no idea what the noise had been.

It was lunchtime before he was able to put himself in order and find out anything useful. Apparently the Commander was in a mood as black as pitch, and had been all night. No one slept well when someone so steeped with the taint was in emotional duress, not with her corruption resonating with those who shared lesser severities of her conditions. Headaches were a common ailment, and enough weariness in the mages that everyone knew better than to get too near them whilst they practiced their combat spells, lest a fireball head their way. Though Artana's mood and its respective side effects were a rare occurrence, it had happened enough that the Wardens exchanged glances, hapless shrugs, and elfroot balms to ease the ache until the Commander's mood improved.

Rumor had it, though, that there was a masterful hand of one recently made Warden helping with elfroot production down in the apothecary - and _that_ just happened to bear investigation. Ives finished the last mouthful of his food and brushed away the crumbs from his shirt before making his way to a particular little-used, little-known tunnel in the basement. After ducking as best as he could through spider homes and other such dangers, he cozied up against the back side of the apothecary wall, near a spot where several bricks were missing and lazily covered from the other side with a tapestry. Though he was fairly certain he was covered in cobwebs at this point, the ultimate desired results had been achieved as women's voices came to his ears.

"... And this is the first time it's been this bad since my Joining. Do you feel anything?" _Ah, Isabeau. That adorable little peasant accent is quite gone when you think you're alone with Livilla. In fact, you seem to be quite the noble. Interesting._

As for the topic of conversation, Ives supposed that she meant the Taint, given the rumors of the day in the Keep. Livilla responded, short and curt: "No."

"The other Wardens think it has something to do with Warden-Commander Artana being upset about something." There was a pause. He noticed that the tapping of the knife on the table had stopped briefly, and when Isabeau spoke again, she sounded suspicious. "What happened last night?"

"Nothing important. I followed them, spoke a bit with them, and then went my separate way." The knife was a tad louder, more irritated. "I told you that when I got back."

"Somehow I think you left some things out."

A sniff echoed in the room on the other side of the tapestry. "I didn't leave out anything you need to know."

"Very well," Isabeau replied, though she certainly didn't sound convinced. The sound of chopping continued unabated for a moment before she continued speaking. "I wonder why it's so different for you. Is it something _they_ did to you, or something to do with that amulet? I mean, when you aren't wearing it, you get as cold as the Commander, but right now, you're fine." A pause. "Hot, even. Did you-" Now the tone was accusatory. "You did something last night, didn't you? Extended yourself magically, I mean."

"Shouldn't you be heading up to sparring practice with that Orlesian brick wall about now?"

"He is _not_ a-"

Ives had to bite his lip quite hard to keep himself from snickering, but the arrival of a new voice was just too brilliantly timed to ignore.

"Ah, sorry. I did not expect that anyone would be in here," he heard his brother say. "I just wanted some elfroot... to chew, for my headache," Ives perfectly mimicked the gesture with his hand, a rounding swoop to insinuate clarification. He didn't have to see it to know it was there. "I am sure if more of our brothers and sisters knew this would help, even our supply would be gone by now. I ... think not much will be done today, yes? Does sleeping to catch up on missed sleep count as accomplishment? There must be something in the air." Again, Ives was amused nearly to the point of ruining his cover. If Jean tried any harder to avoid mentioning Artana, _she_ was going to walk in as well.

"Oh, for-" Livilla sounded perfectly exasperated, and suddenly Jean gasped. "There. You're better. Now go teach Isabeau how to use two longswords. She hasn't been able to talk about anything else ever since that spar of yours. And you should repeat _that_ , too. She's too tense."

"I... ah... I, ... yes," Jean was struggling, as if he was still trying to get his wits about him. "Her enthusiasm to learn is a credit to the Wardens. I will see if Ives is up to it, then. He was not feeling well this morning, either. I imagine he might still be asleep now."

Ives smirked. It was almost sweet the way Jean was covering for him. He knew full well that if Ives got to sleep at all it was generally from the hours just shy of dawn to the ones just before lunch. That hadn't changed for years.

"Might as well deal with him, too, then," Livilla was saying, and Ives silently startled himself. Did she know where he was? Would he glow if she healed him? "I don't suppose you have something that's touched him recently, say in the past year? A weapon, clothing, or something else? That would be easier and shorter than me going to him directly."

"We share clothes sometimes," Jean offered, "He's probably worn these, and the shirt, if that helps. I apologize, I am a little ... per-," Ives supposed he was speaking about his pants, as he thought about it, and now struggling to find the word _perplexed_. His tongue darted across his lips as the smirk shifted to a grin. The topic of his brother's 'issues with the Trade tongue' was rather amusing to him in private. "... Lost."

"Good. Off with the pants, then."

Ives' eyes widened and he raised a hand to cover his mouth, the snicker truly having _nearly_ snuck out. He shuddered with silent laughter, and missed most of his brother's response save that it ended with, "-could simply not!"

"Look, whether or not you want Ives to pay for last night's debauchery is of little matter to me," Livilla said, sounding a trifle impatient. "I want Isabeau happy. To get Isabeau happy, she needs to start two-bladed training. For that, Creators help me, I need both you and your brother. And for that, I need your pants. I can't use the pants the way I need to with you touching them in any way, so it has to be off with the pants. By Dirthamen, are _all_ men so dense? Or is it just you Durantes? Besides, unless you want everyone in the Keep incapacitated for the next week, you do _not_ want me anywhere near your lover right now."

Ives was fairly certain he was going to die by suffocation from holding back his laughter. He could see his brother's face now, red and flustered at the barest mention of the word _lover_. "Ah, why ... would you assume we were lovers when... everyone knows Ives and Artana..." Yes, he was definitely dying - about as much as Jean was floundering, as terrible a liar as he ever was.

"Oh, please. Your little love trio was the fodder for all kinds of gossip sessions for the girls in the sewing room. They always wondered if-" Her voice paused. "Well, I won't ask that, then. I'm not sure you could take it right now. Do you need some water? Your face is awfully red."

" _Livilla!"_ There were some steps. "Jean, I'm so sorry. It's not a secret, but no one truly minds. There's no need to worry about it so."

"Oh, stop coddling him. He's a grown man. Pants. Off. Now."

It sounded like Jean had backed into a chair. There was a shuffling of feet and a creak - probably from a door hinge. "If it is ... absolutely necessary... I will - just ... behind this cabinet," Ives could just barely make out, though it was certainly muffled. After a little more rustling, silence followed for a moment. The suspense was brutal.

"Excellent, Isabeau, bring me his pants."

"Why can't _you_ get them?"

"You're closer. Stop wasting time."

There was a bit of shuffling of feet, and then an embarrassed cough. "Um, Jean? Can you give me your pants?"

If that hadn't been enough, the way that Jean murmured, " _Oui..._ " was just perfect. Ives was biting his lip white at this point, and almost feared he would give himself away as a laugh finally escaped in the largest degree he'd allow it - a puff of air from his nose. It sounded like Isabeau wasn't doing terribly better at the same task, thankfully. Her near laughter definitely helped to conceal his.

"Here."

"Finally," Livilla said in exasperation. "Actually, get his shirt too, while you're at it. Just in case I need it."

"Madame!" Ives heard Jean exclaim, and yet again he nearly lost it. Isabeau said something to protest, too, but the words were lost in his effort to maintain the silence necessary for spying. Such a shame, too, because if this were any more beautiful, it would have to be sung in taverns.

"Do you want to learn how to fight with two longswords or not, Isabeau? And do you want your brother to get out of bed? On a good day, I'm sure he lazes about, but after a night like last night, I'm sure he- Oh, just give her your shirt."

"What do you mean a night like-? Isabeau... why would you look at me like that?" Jean muttered. "Why must his health involve me in my small clothes?"

"Please?" Isabeau said in a soft voice, and Ives had to bite his hand to not laugh at the little catch she put into her voice. "I'll be your best friend. I _really_ want to start training today. Pretty please?"

There was a groan, and the cabinet door squeaked again. Ives could envision it - that solid wall of muscle must have looked about as intimidating as a mouse as he tried to cover his shame in his smalls.

"Oh, thank you!" Isabeau said after the most adorable of squeals, and Ives knew Jean must have acquiesced.

"Ah, much better. Now it almost feels like he's only a few feet away from me." Suddenly a tingling rushed over Ives, causing the hairs on his arms to rise - just as when she'd healed him before in her quarters. It was a frightening pairing, such a feeling and such words. He had his suspicions about their use. She was an impressive woman, it probably wasn't _impossible_ for her to know he was there... "There. Your brother is _all_ better now. Physically, anyway. I can't cure lout." There was a rustle of clothing followed by the sound of chopping resuming. "Now get dressed and get out. Isabeau's has waited long enough."

"Thank you, Ser," Isabeau said brightly with another rustle of cloth. "Here are your clothes back."

"Thank you," Jean said with great relief in his voice, "I will dress quickly and leave while my dignity and your honor are still somewhat intact. We will wake the unwakable and have you training with both of your swords soon enough."

It sounded like Ives' time was up. It took him roughly the same amount of time to stand without making a sound as it did for Jean to dress himself and head out of the Apothecary. Ives wasn't concerned about beating him up to the room - he needed to wash these cobwebs off anyways, so he would just go along to the baths and be 'found' there, instead. Just as he was beginning to shuffle out of the crevice he'd tucked himself into, though, one last gem filtered through the tapestry:

"I give those shirt and pants maybe two hours before they fall apart. ... A pity I won't be there to see it."

Ives stifled a snort as Livilla began to hum and, assumably, went back to her work.

That night the mead hall was livelier than it had been in a long time. Though only Ives had been partial witness to the prophecy itself, true to Livilla's prediction Jean's shirt and pants had literally fallen apart at the seams, falling to the floor in a flutter of loose cloth during a brisk exchange with his eager student. Ives could not decide which warrior was more mortified by the development, though Isabeau quit the field first as she fled with cheeks ablaze. This suited Ives perfectly as it left Jean to his twin's dubious tender mercies.

In the hall, Ives was cycling between giving the catcallers and chiders a lively background tune and causing Jean's hell himself. Though Jean had no hope of living down his horror tonight, he _was_ taking the hits admirably - and even laughing far more than one might have expected, particularly considering that his own twin brother was the one digging the sharpest jabs. He simply would not allow Jean to play the incident down. Ives seized every opportunity to refresh the Wardens' memory about the vanishing clothes, or to educate those who unfortunately missed the show.

At one point, after a few very pointed jabs, Jean received a heavy thump on his shoulder as Ives used it as a vault to hop down from the bench and hurry towards the newcomer. No doubt it incited terror to see _who_ his brother had targeted, because the groan he failed to stifle was audible over the din.

"Isabeau, _chérie_ , recovered from seeing entirely too much of dear Jean yet, have you?" Ives grinned and looked between the two - Jean glancing up from the mug he was trying to hide behind, and Isabeau offering a sympathetic glance.

"I'm sure I do not know what you are talking about, Ives," she stated calmly. "I certainly saw nothing which would bring shame to any man."

Ives was heartbroken that she was ruining his nefarious plans. This was a prime opportunity for merciless teasing, after all. "Oh, come now, sister! Ah, lala, it's not every day that clothes simply vanish from a man's back during weapons practice, particularly when the mages are not throwing their fire about." A hand was raised dramatically to his forehead to counter Jean's exasperated sigh, and Ives' other arm swept about Isabeau's shoulders to underscore his excessive drama. " _Oh!_ But if _only_ we knew how such _tragedy_ came about! Woe, what cruel _fate,_ to force you to look at all those rippling muscles!"

"It was nothing like that!" Isabeau protested. "Livilla said-" She snapped her mouth shut, obviously not wanting to implicate her friend, but Ives had already seized upon the lapse.

"Aha! I might have known Livilla had a hand in this little misadventure of my brother's. She is quite the... Ah, lala, how to put this in a manner vaguely kind..."

"Oh, don't mind me. Say what's on your mind," Livilla said from behind Ives.

"Sneak," Ives said, as if in epiphany, turning to face her with a grin.

Livilla shrugged. "As they say, it takes one to know one." Moving past him close enough to accidentally step on his foot in passing, she thrust out a bag to Jean. "Here."

Ives had to admit, he'd never seen Jean look quite so hesitant to offer a smile. He'd be wary of Livilla's 'gifts' after that, too. Of course, he was still a gentleman, and still had to thank the lady.

"Oh? Thank you. What are-?"

"A new shirt and pants. I suggest you don't share them with your brother, but then, I tailored them to you and not to him." She stepped back as Jean took the bag, looking him up and down. "They won't fit him nearly as well as they will you. He's not quite as impressive as you are."

"Madame!" Ives gasped in protest, but after a moment, he looked quite pensive. "Well ... he does have a rather toned, taut ass, and spectacular abs that, sadly, I just don't quite carry the same. Though I would argue I have finer calves and a sleeker shape, no?" Jean, of course, couldn't possibly be redder.

"Not from what I remember," Livilla said with a small shrug, then turned and walked past Ives once more, the second and equally accidental step of her foot on his delaying his inevitable comment until she'd left the room.

Isabeau, meanwhile, stepped forward and looked curiously into the bag Jean still held before patting the warrior sympathetically on the shoulder. Leaning forward slightly, she spoke just above a whisper to Jean. "For the record, I much preferred looking at you than your brother. Just ignore the lout when he teases you." With a quick pat of his arm, she stood and headed for the exit, glaring at Ives.

Ives laughed as the words caused a new burst of bright crimson to consume his brother's face. Even while Jean's stammering failed to form a single coherent word, Ives put a dramatic hand over his heart in answer to Isabeau's adorably angry little glare, the perfect picture of melodramatic innocence. " _Madame!_ You wound me!"

Once both women were gone, Isabeau's imperious departure carrying all the dignity of the Empress herself, the men sat in contemplative silence; Ives with a grin, and Jean shaking his head. When the silence had run its course, Jean looked to Ives, who sensed the eyes enough to return the glance.

"She's seen you naked?"

"Shut up, _mon frére._ "


	6. My Gift to You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A gift is not always a simple matter, particularly when it comes from the shadows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to our fantastic beta readers, Mille Libri and ShebasDawn!

 

* * *

"I saw the schedules downstairs." Ives hovered near the door to Artana's office, leaning against the jamb with his arms crossed. " _Amour_ , while I can understand you are at the height of a disagreement with her, I think that giving Livilla duty to clean the mess hall was ..."

"I needed another. If she is concerned for the plight of Orlesian Elvhen, then she can do as they must do."

Ives sighed. She hadn't even looked up from her paperwork. "... I was going to say _blatant_ , but I think that you are well aware of that fact. I truly do hate to be the one to wonder it, but don't you think that perhaps this has become a little petty? I think you are a marvelous thief and that you have nothing to fret about on the matter of being caught. Isn't a difference in opinion something that should be accepted?"

He could tell she wasn't buying in. Actually, he even suspected she was about to break her quill. With a frown on his face and weight on his heart, Ives knew he would need to voice some unpopular criticism. "... I understand. You acted out of character in an impulse, and now you are fighting to be consistent. That is the root of this, right? You're perfectly entitled to have been angry. Even I was angry." She snuffed, and he knew it was disbelieving. It was true. He didn't often get angry, and sometimes when he did, it was almost impossible to tell. Ives sighed. "I know that you can move beyond it. I love you."

Since Artana clearly needed time to consider it herself, Ives turned to leave. If only there were a way to intervene before Livilla had to-

He snapped his fingers. _Marie._ As head Housekeeper of the Keep, he would be able to beg a favor of her without alerting Artana to the change in her orders, and then, perhaps, Livilla would be more amenable to a suggestion of a truce. Swiftly his steps took him down to the sewing room, where Marie could be found during most of the day, but they faltered when he heard a familiar voice echo down the hall.

"-fulfill my duties, since the Warden-Commander _commands_ it." Livilla's tone bordered between calm and sarcastic, making Ives wince even as he hesitated just outside the threshold of the sewing room. "You need not inconvenience anyone else on _my_ account, Marie. She'll get over this childishness soon enough."

He positively grimaced that time, grateful that Artana hadn't heard that _last_ comment. It would have guaranteed Livilla mess hall duties for another year or more - and that was _not_ conducive to his plans.

"I really think you're overreacting, my dear." Marie's soothing voice was a welcome balm, but not, sadly, enough to calm Livilla's wrath.

"Perhaps," was the curt reply, and Ives only had that as warning before finding himself face to face with an angry mage.

He waved his fingers at her in an attempt to lighten the mood. _"Bonjour, chérie."_

She groaned and pushed past him, a shake of her head indicating her reaction to his presence more clearly than words. With a sigh, he headed into the sewing room and flopped onto a pile of clothes waiting to be mended.

"That is quite the mournful look on your face. Trouble in the tower?" That was Marie's subtle way of inquiring after Artana.

"A bit of friction, you might say, between the tower and those lower down." He pinched the bridge of his nose, wondering how on Thedas he could form a truce between the two strong-willed women, much less reconcile them.

Marie looked thoughtful for a moment as her needle flashed in the lamplight. "Perhaps you need to reconsider your tactics, lad. Rather than a frontal assault, you should sneak in from the side. You are not your brother, after all. Use your charm to gather allies and gently bring them together. Perhaps sweeten the offer a bit, even, as you do with me."

Ives brightened, plans already swirling in his head. "I could _kiss_ you, you scheming genius, you!" He leapt to his feet and proceeded to do so: sparing her lips; once upon a time there was a clumsy man who thought it wise to peck Marie on the lips, and he'd had to pluck a needle from his cheek when Marie slapped him with her stitchery.

His new mission firmly in place, he sprinted to his room and feverishly dug through his sock drawer, looking for a particular small box. Pulling it out, he checked inside for the delicate silver and blue earrings he'd acquired for Isabeau shortly after her arrival in Val Royeaux. They truly did suit her, he had to admit, just as the blonde merchant he'd purchased them from had assured him - repeatedly. Carefully he put the box into his pocket, deciding there was no better time to attempt a softening of her opinion of him than the present.

A short walk and several long moments of thought later, wherein he had turned over and over again the words in his head that he hoped would mend all the bridges surrounding him, Ives knocked on Isabeau's door. A gasp was audible shortly thereafter, and a twinge of fear sprung to life within him. He decided it was best to play it casually, hoping it was simply that she wasn't decent. "Sister~!" He called in a sing-song voice. "Are you taking guests?"

After a considerable hesitation in which that nervousness grew, the latch of the door finally turned and the heavy iron hinges squeaked as it opened. Ives was so startled by what he saw that the words she spoke hardly filtered through to his brain.

"Of _course_ , Ives!" She said, but all he heard was the gleaming wetness of her lips and the artful deshabille of her hair. "For _you_ , anything!" The dress she wore was fascinating, but the truly brilliant sadist who had designed it had eschewed the easy seduction of exposed shoulders or a low neckline. Those areas were well covered in form-clinging silk, contrary to _normal_ Orlesian fashion. Still, though the material concealed _most_ of her fair white skin, a square of cloth had somehow been removed from the middle of her chest, exposing tempting mounds _almost_ to the point of unforgivable scandal, even by Orlesian standards. He had to admit the aforementioned hair had rather leading curls that pooled just so perfectly in the framed pale flesh of her chest. "Have we not shared the passion of a kiss?" At this point, her hand extended and his eyes stole to it instead, just in time to properly hear her add to her imperious gesture, "I insist you come in."

By that point, Ives had licked his lips. While Jean would have undoubtedly had a heart attack to be subject to such teasing, Ives was handling it famously... and she did probably enjoy the fact she'd clearly gained the attention of a man trained to be a Court Bard - who, tradition insisted, were the most jaded of all creatures when it came to beauty and the fairer sex, not that he particularly adhered to that stereotype. It was more important that _she_ feel accomplished. He slipped his hand into hers and bent almost instinctively into an elaborate bow over her hand as he held it high enough to kiss as any courtier would.

Apparently, he'd been silent too long. Isabeau drew him into the room as he straightened and leaned forward to close the door behind them. "Something have your tongue?"

"Ah. Ah, well, no." Shifting both hands behind his back, he marveled at how he now had the privilege of friendship with two stunning individuals who had inadequate views of their own inner and outer beauty. "I simply..." A brief pause followed, after which he cleared his throat lightly and put on a charming smile best and previously used for _getting something_ , even while one of his hands reached back and locked the door behind him. Now, perhaps more than ever, privacy was paramount. "Dearest Isabeau, I do happen to have a gift for you, though it was not my sole intent in finding my way to this lovely paradise within the Keep. Ah! And I should say, the gift is not soap or anything terribly practical this time. Would you care to guess?"

She clapped her hands together excitedly and bounced, causing his gaze to follow suit before he blinked and firmly vowed _not to look._ "Let me see!" She craned her neck to peer around him, and his vow was quickly broken as he followed her movements, eyes quickly snapping to meet her own when she looked up at him with a slight pout on her face. He bit back a chuckle, realizing she was playing the Game with him once more - Isabeau was not one to pout in earnest. "What, no hint?" she demanded. "Not even a little one?"

"Well, I could say that my family is a bit of a hint," he suggested, though he persisted in holding his hands behind his back. The gift was in his pocket, of course, but since she had put it in her own mind that he was holding it behind his back, this was far more entertaining. "Shall I say, what we do, not what we're renowned for... granted, fairly much any way you direct your thoughts on the Durantes, those are much one and the same, aren't they?" Since the Durantes were known as much for heated romances as their trading in gold and silver, it was a bit of inflammatory fun for him to tuck his chin and peer at what was offered in the fantastic new dress she'd procured.

She bit her lip, perhaps to fight a giggle, and punched him lightly on the arm - enough to make him rock on his feet, at least. She was certainly a warrior, no matter the inviting expanse of lush, pale- He dragged his thoughts back to the conversation as she said, "Lout. You don't necessarily have to admire the buffet, you know. What would your brother say of your wandering eyes?"

As Ives did his best to recover his balance, he chuckled - _almost_ nervously - and rubbed the spot that she had hit. He was decidedly not warrior trained, and the poor, delicate little bard had to venture that he was probably going to bruise now. "Interesting you should mention a buffet in the context of Jean and wandering eyes," he murmured cryptically, then let a chortle override his words. "While, sadly, I shan't answer your inquiry of my brother's opinion, I _will_ give you a hint to your gift! Aside from impeccable taste in women, particularly of the fine elvhen variety such as your roommate, you perhaps know that my family deals in gold and silver, _no_? We own most of the mines in the West, after all, and a good few in the South. As you might imagine with such a nature to our business, we have a few ... connections, hm?"

"Jewelry?" she guessed, smile bright: a trifle _too_ bright, a bit too fixed, perhaps, but genuine as far as Ives could tell. "You're too kind, ser, to someone who spends most of her time in armor. What is the occasion?"

He hesitated to pull any package out (little or otherwise) when her smile gave him any pause whatsoever, the concern of having misjudged jumping into his mind. It wasn't often he did so, but it was certainly possible - particularly when he hadn't known someone too long. "Ah, but that was somewhat the occasion. I thought that perhaps you were loath to be in such a place that many warriors are - a balance between a strong, dangerous, well-trained behemoth and a beautiful and delicate flower as fine as any Orlesian Comtesse ever was. Never too much one or the other, but always a blend of the two. Tell me, do you terribly hate jewelry?"

The smile faltered, and she looked away. She seemed to deflate a bit, then met his gaze with eyes that spoke of a long-standing wariness. "I... I'm sorry. Gifts... probably don't mean the same thing to you that they do to me." A glance over her shoulder to the vanity told him that it also meant something quite _specific_ at this point in time. "And you want something from me in return, I would imagine." Now the suspicion was in her tone, ever so lightly.

"What! Gifts are marvelous, and they mustn't always be a thing, nor for something in return. You wound me." He took his hands from behind his back and held them instead over his heart. "Ah, while it may be _somewhat_ true that a gift is a most effective bribe, the thing for which I yearn is immaterial." For the sake of drama, he swept his hands to his sides from his heart and sighed. "I wished for nothing more than the beautiful smile of a lovely maiden. Granted, it seems I've been derailed from my gift, and along with it anything I _might_ have gained beyond that smile I so wanted."

She finally did giggle, though there was a suspicious sheen in her eyes, but this time the smile was genuine. "I'm sorry," she said, and a dreaded sniffle made Ives quickly dip for his handkerchief to give to her. She took it with gratitude and delicately dabbed at her eyes. "You know, it occurs to me that we have such a poor sense of timing, you and I." Again, her gaze fell on the vanity, and she sighed. "I suppose I should just show you."

"Show me...?" Though of course she would show him, knowing _then_ and knowing _now_ were different, so he had to fill the _now_ to tide him over until the _then_. He followed her as she went to the vanity and sat down, himself standing just to her side, lips set in a small frown.

Her hands reached up to a modest box, where they hovered for a moment before reaching in quickly and withdrawing a second, smaller box which she dropped onto the vanity quickly as if touching it burned her hands. "This was on my pillow when I returned from practice earlier," she said quietly. "With a note from... from him."

"Him..." No wonder she had taken so poorly to the prospect of a gift. Ives winced, his frown only deepening. "Well, you've had your fill of gifts, then, I'm sure. Is it ... something that you would like to talk about, _cherie_? It can truly help to be heard, and I am perhaps a lout, but I am a caring ear and a sympathetic touch, with a shoulder that can't possibly be stained no matter how many tears you might need to let out." His hand gingerly rested on her shoulder, but there was simply no way he could think about _that_ with her looking so shaken. He could see it beneath the smiles and the topic changes now, and he wondered how he'd not picked it up earlier. Of course, the dress had been _quite_ the distraction, leaving his mind engaged in a different Game than it should have been.

"I-I'm not sure. I thought perhaps the candles would keep him away from our quarters, at least, but..." She gestured listlessly at the box. "Apparently not. The presents are always beautiful, or useful - like my sword - but this one was something that once belonged to my mother. She always wore it, but it was missing from her neck when they found-" The recitation faltered, and her eyes again filled with tears as she brought the handkerchief up to her face. This time, more than a few tears leaked out as she began to cry in earnest. Swiftly he arranged himself so that he could comfort her as best he could, kneeling behind where she sat and holding her carefully.

He reached with one hand to crack the box open and peek within, though, and its contents caused a surge of anger - a reaction he made sure Isabeau did not see. They didn't match the gentle shushing, or the way he drew back his hand to hold her and rub her arms just as the other already was. It seemed no coincidence that the pendant had appeared on her table today, and Ives knew it was even less of one that in his pocket were a matching set of earrings. _How_ Martin had managed that part, Ives could only speculate. No, he wouldn't give her the gift now - and he had to reconsider Martin's manipulation of the fair maid in his arms by a few measures.

The storm eventually passed, dwindling into a few sniffles, and he continued to rub his hands along her arms as he sought for a way to pull her lightly away from her current dark place. "Ah, so even the sword was from him? Pity, I was considering gifting a shield to you, but I was too lazy to carry it all the way across the Keep. My poor back and all that, you know."

He was very much relieved when an unladylike snort emerged between two sniffs. "Can you imagine a shield with _this_ dress?" She looked in the mirror and took a few moments to correct as much damage as she could with the handkerchief, and tweaked her hair slightly with her fingers before sighing and shaking her head. "That wouldn't really work, you know. I'd..." She lightly skimmed the valley between her mounds and giggle, weak but present. "I'd flop out."

Ives chuckled, as well, with the strength she couldn't quite give herself just now. "Against _certain_ individuals, I would think it might be vastly more effective! Perchance the simplest victory you ever had. Hmm," he paused, a satirically pensive expression striking his face. His lips pursed, his eyes narrowed, and he tilted his head as he added, "I'd venture there isn't a single reason you couldn't kill a man in the nude. In fact, if you ever think to kill me, I'd rather appreciate if you would do so in all your glory. I think it would soften the blow to be slain by a woman in the idyllic spirit of Andraste." At this point he nudged her, a twinkle in his eyes and a soft, dreamy sigh in his chest. A good counter to the less than dreamy state her face was _currently_ in, and he noted that she raised an eyebrow as she persisted in mopping the mess up.

"This must be quite the favor you have in mind," she quipped. "But don't think for a second that I dressed this way for you, lout, no matter the timing. I was-" She blushed, the faintest of red on her cheeks, and Ives arched an eyebrow.

"Oh, do not think you can avoid explaining _this_ little mystery," he said. When a tired but genuine giggle emerged from behind the cloth that was working at the paint on her face, he continued, "After all, most men would have perished in joyful decadence at the sight of such... _magnificence."_ He somehow refrained from using such words as _valleys_ and _mounds,_ no matter how desperately the need rose within him. "Ah, imagine if it had been my nobler half - why, he would have combusted into a blushing cinder on the spot!"

" _Ives!"_ she protested, but it could not be denied that she was laughing now, lifting the mood in the room considerably - as well as _other things_ , Ives thought as he shifted his position in what he _hoped_ was a suitably subtle manner. That dress was _truly_ enchanting, after all. "Maker, you're just as bad as Livilla!"

He could not _possibly_ let that one go. "Oh? Ah, lala, she does seem to have a fascination with making cloth _disappear_ , does she not? A trait I would not mind exploring more fully if the opportunity arose." Of course, such an opportunity would not arise, not with Artana willing to let him grace her bed, but the gasp and light smack against his arm from Isabeau made the little jab well worth the effort. "Ah, but please, I must know, _ma petite fleur:_ the marvelous dress, the tendrils of hair, the colors on your face... Why, if I did not know you, I would think you were competing to be declared _Le Madame de Orlais!"_

The towel wiped away the last of her damaged face paint from her mouth as she rolled her eyes. "Lout."

" _Chérie,"_ he returned with a devilish wink. When that still did not elicit more than a glare, he fell into a pout and pined slightly, letting the faintest of sounds escape the back of his throat.

Luckily for him, Isabeau was no stronger against the force of his pouts than Artana. With a sigh, she capitulated - to his inner glee. "As you wish, _mon cher."_ She put the handkerchief on top of the box holding the pendant, staring into the mirror as her smile slowly faded. "I wanted... a distraction. No, that's not the right word." Her hand moved from the box to rest on her neck, where the pendant would have rested were she to wear it. "I wanted to imagine, for a little while, what my life might have been like if Martin had not... If my parents hadn't..." She closed her eyes, but the tears did not start again. After a deep breath, she opened them again, his use of the momentary blindness bringing him a half-step closer. "Mama was considered a beauty of Florian's court. There were even rumors of an affair with him, but she said that is all they were - rumors. After- after they died, I always wondered if she would have taken me to Val Royeaux, to dance upon the stage of public scrutiny as she did... If I would have performed as admirably."

"Ah, _chérie,"_ he said softly, his impractically tender heart breaking a little. Unable to restrain himself from empathy for his dear new friend, he knelt behind her and embraced her, holding for comfort rather than any other reason - and for once, given the circumstances, his body complied. "You would have been what you are now: a shining jewel of petite perfection amidst the false glitter that is the nobility of Val Royeaux." Gently he kissed her hair, then loosed a faint chuckle as an image entered his head. "And bold enough to capture the curiosity of a certain Court Bard, as well, I would imagine. So... not very different from now, _non?_ Save that perhaps you would not have known Livilla, or known the satisfaction of mastering the blade." Ives understood her mood all too well, after all: he had a few of those _what if_ s lurking in the back of his own mind. With a final squeeze, he released her but stayed close so he could look at her in the mirror with a hand resting on her shoulder. "For what little comfort it is, I am most grateful both you and Livilla tread upon the paths which led you here."

She smiled tremulously at him, taking up the handkerchief again to wipe at the brimming moisture in her eyes. Again she took a deep breath, then closed her eyes and shook her head in a sharp motion. "So serious! I am not dressed for that! Let us talk of other things, lout." Setting the cloth back upon the box and pushing it away, she looked at him and pursed her lips slightly. "Ah, that's right: we were discussing your 'favor.' And before you start: no, I won't ask Livilla to make clothes disappear from anyone on demand, so don't bother asking. Especially for poor Jean. I think the man has suffered enough, and you not _nearly_ enough." She tapped her face thoughtfully. "Or perhaps I misunderstand your visit entirely. You're really here to see Livilla, aren't you? She's far more interesting, anyway."

Ives shook his head. "To begin, I must disagree that I have indeed suffered enough, and Jean not nearly enough! I have had to live with the man since the very day we were born, after all. And furthermore, you are wrong again. Livilla is precisely as interesting as you are. Two elegant buds of pale white and rosy blush which feed the flitting hummingbird do not open to be less robust and beautiful because their blooms do not match or don't brighten the same hour. Also, I haven't come to request disappearing clothes. Ah, well... not as such," he added, pausing a moment to rub his chin, "though it may not be _entirely_ unrelated. No, no," he said again, flitting away the tangent by waving his hand dismissively. "I come bribing so that you might help me a little with Artana, actually. She's ... incredibly irate due to last night's little mishap with the aforementioned pale bud, be you the rosy one."

Isabeau blinked and turned to face Ives directly. "What mishap? What are you talking about?" Her eyes flickered to the door and then back to Ives. "Livilla mentioned something about getting cleaning duties because she'd earned the Commander's displeasure, but I thought that was more related to exposing Artana's lover to all eyes than anything else."

"Not as such, no. Artana is Dalish... she's not shy about the body - I don't think you can be, living in nature and sharing everything as they do. She is, however, clandestine about _some_ things. Livilla caught us last night. I thought she would have told you." His lips tilted downwards for a moment, but it didn't stop him from continuing. "There so happens to be a famous thorn in the Guard's side around Val Royeaux, one that has even been mentioned here in the Keep. We do have to keep explaining that just because they _call_ this individual the Ghoul, it doesn't mean they're actually tainted, and thus we're no more apt to hunt them than the Guard who, of course, dislikes us more for saying so. Ah, lala, a vicious cycle."

"The Ghoul?"

"All the rage in the past few years. As I say, a thorn in the side." He watched as she considered it, the clearest signs of thought - from the slightly scrunched nose to the slight biting of her lower lip - perfectly adorable upon her face.

"Pale skin, eyes that glow in the dark..." An epiphany seemingly struck her as a grin lit her face, and it was contagious enough for Ives to mirror it as she said, "I assume the part about the Ghoul eating the children of rich merchants is not true, then?"

"Well, not of the _Ghoul_ , at least. That individual was someone else entirely, but I suppose any scapegoat will do in some situations." His shoulders rolled casually, not matching the gravity of what he'd just confessed, if he was being serious. "Livilla seems to believe that it's too obvious, and that Artana is risking the Wardens' honor. That's what she said to her, at any rate, and I'm sure you know how well Artana's taken such criticism on the back of a gesture she considered threatening. It's all remedied, of course - all except Artana's opinion of Livilla - and I suppose that's more the heart of my presence here tonight. Artana is a proud Warden, but she's not _pleased_ to be one. If I thought she could _hate_ anything, I think I might use that word, no?"

"Most people would hate their killer," Livilla said from the doorway. "That seems to be a fairly logical reaction to what happened to her." A glint of metal flashed in her hand as she closed the door behind her and came into the room. Her scarred eyebrow rose when she saw Isabeau's dress and Ives' proximity, but she simply shook her head and went to the wardrobe, opening it to rummage within. "She's been a Warden for ten years?"

After recovering from the startling appearance of Livilla through what had most certainly been a locked door, Ives turned at the waist to face her without moving too far from Isabeau. If she had picked the lock, it had been done without the slightest of sounds, and that didn't seem like a skill she ought to have. Him, yes, that made sense - but Livilla? "... _Oui_ , I don't imagine she had lied about that. It was on record that Riordan orchestrated her Joining, and he passed with the Blight. Everyone knows it... He was a man more honorable in the end than most." Ives took a sincere, reverent moment of silence for the thought of a fellow Orlesian Warden, but the mourning didn't end with an old hero. "Artana ... is well aware that she's dying. I _suppose_ you could say she doesn't care... but you _did_ manage to make it seem elsewise yesterday."

"Of course she cares. Only a fool wouldn't, and she's certainly no fool." Livilla emerged from the wardrobe with a small package wrapped in linen. Closing the wardrobe, she stalked to her bed and sat, handling the package with a tenderness Ives hadn't before seen in her. "She wouldn't take the risks she does if she didn't care, or if she thought her life would last more than a few more moons. She must have initially been exposed to an enormous amount of the taint to be so steeped in it this many years later. The Joining saved her? Just as with Isabeau?" At Ives' short nod, she sighed and shook her head. "Given her appearance, I'm astonished she lived long enough to be Joined. It is an extreme degree of tainting, the like of which I have only seen once before. And generally those flames burn even brighter, and for shorter periods of time."

"No better description for Artana, I fear. You're right, though. On most days I don't see it myself, for I see nothing more than the woman I love, but she's begun to look ... ill, hasn't she? Certainly not so robust as she was, but she still tries to maintain that energy." He sighed. "Ah, lala. A worry, to be sure. You, though - you ... seem to be quite the expert on all one could want to know. How is it you came to be so terribly observant, my pretty pale bud?"

Livilla laid her package on the bed next to her, then reached up and tapped her amulet thoughtfully. Ives tensed, recalling his last encounter with it, but her hand dropped away as her dark eye scrutinized him. "Tell me, lout, do I feel like a Warden to you?"

Though the question was a little unexpected and made him blink, after a moment's thought he was able to say, "Not particularly, no - I make Jean use his Warden sense if Artana's not around. It's second nature for her." He was leaning against the table now, his arms crossed over his chest and a view of either lady with just a turn of his head. "I don't feel you at this time, for certain."

Livilla nodded, her fingers already working at the clasp of her amulet before he'd finished answering. When it came loose, she set it aside on the mattress. "And now?"

Ives _felt_ the change, a rapid and overwhelming one which chilled the room so swiftly he jumped. _"Maker_ , you're at least as tainted as Artana is!" He blinked, tilting his head for added effect as he wondered, "I don't suppose you can bottle the secret it is that you've found? I have a good use for it in mind, you see."

"I'm sure you do." She took up her amulet and secured it around her neck once more. "And were it not for this artifact, I would have been dead long since myself. My own exposure to the taint came through Tevinter manipulation when I was captive. I cannot think Artana's came about in the same manner. Still, I think a discussion between myself and Artana would be..." Her hand settled on the package next to her as she looked up at Ives. "...beneficial for all parties involved. Although that does beg the question of why you are here." She glanced at Isabeau and her still-disheveled hair. "Since I think I know you both well enough to realize it was not for the _obvious_."

" _Livilla!"_ Isabeau protested indignantly.

"Oh! Were these harsh words hiding a vote of confidence? I think I shall take it." Ives slid away from Isabeau only after squeezing her shoulder, satisfactorily convinced that her mood had improved. "Why must I be here for something, hm? Why could I not enjoy the presence of two fantastic women, whom I should hope consider me as I do them - to be friends most dear? Why, I suppose I did attempt to dote upon Isabeau with a gift, and it _may_ have had its tiny ulterior motives, but it was only an _attempt_!" There was a distinctive click as he snapped his fingers and held one skywards. "And might I add that wasn't even my trump card of bribery. The first intent was to arrange for another to take your shift in the mess hall, in fact. It was just good opportunity to try and have Isabeau talk you into mending the bridge we've seen getting demolished by the ogre." He shrugged, then let his arms fold across his chest in a fantastically nonchalant manner. "Ah, well, yet still not the trump card, indeed."

"So it _was_ Artana who modified the schedule. I might have known." Livilla shook her head. "I suppose I can understand to an extent the feeling that life is slipping away from you, but... she forgets herself, I think, and where she came from." Her hand tapped thoughtfully on the bundle next to her. "Well, since I suppose you'll keep that foolish look on your face until I ask, what is your trump card, lout?"

"I can have any number of foolish looks on my face. I like this one," he teased, turning his eyes crossed and pushing up his lower lip until he looked perfectly ridiculous. "It can get a little tiring, though," he said with his lip still tucked up, the words turning into a muffled jumble. "Would be better if you went ahead and asked again. Just to really be certain you meant to ask."

Livilla and Isabeau exchanged a glance, and Isabeau nodded. He hardly had a moment to realize it was coming before she swatted him on his buttock. "What is your trump card, then?"

"Ah! Lala!" He yelped, hopping forward and rubbing his poor bottom. "The most abuse it's received in years... Hmph, so cruel. Well. I'll _have you know_ my ultimate motive was to see if you and Artana might come back to speaking terms _for_ my trump card. There is a very intriguing loophole she's found in the rules that control the Grey Wardens, and I think we ought to take advantage of it. There is a Thaig that needs clearing - do you know Thaigs, Livilla _chérie_? It's not such common knowledge, if it's not that _particular_ rock you've climbed out from under. These ruins once belonged to a Dwarven clan as their familial home - and it happens to be a mission of reasonable import to Weisshaupt, considering the Darkspawn that infest them. As the brilliant, if slightly abusive, Isabeau may know," he added, brows both raised to the warrior in question, "our center of command, the distant Weisshaupt, does much of the hand-tying around here. There is little they do not ultimately approve or disapprove directly - or, at least, through wax stamps."

"The point," he continued, sensing Livilla's rising impatience, presumably because she wished him to _get on with it,_ "comes to this: the two things Weisshaupt does not govern is the Calling and Reasonable Import. We have both in our particular instance. We can take several months on a mission to this thaig, in full understanding that Artana is not to return, but our troupe must be five or more to receive clearance." Sighing woefully, Ives raised a hand from his ass to his heart - places some would argue were sort of the same in a bard. "Jean, Artana, _moi_ ... it is true that Jean is the educated one, but alas, that is two beneath five."

"The three of you?" Livilla snorted. "Are you sure you would leave the tent enough to-"

"Ah, I think Livilla means that it isn't a very _rounded_ group," Isabeau interrupted hastily, just as Ives was reaching the point of his chuckle that risked being followed by too brazen of a retort. "Ideally, one should have as many warriors as rogues, even if one of the rogues is an Archer. As well, a mage on a long journey is essential. Even without combat, the further one travels from civilization, the more difficult it is to deal with injuries from accidents and illnesses, much less combat wounds. We may be newly made Wardens, but our training is... unique, I think. And we have a proven ability to keep secrets - useful for this journey."

She looked over at Livilla, their eyes meeting for a few moments. Again they spoke without words, needing only Isabeau's quirked eyebrow and Livilla's faint sigh to come to a decision. "Five does seem a bit small to clear an entire thaig, though large enough to clear the rumor of one." Turning to Ives, she raised an eyebrow. "So, you sneaky lout, this purported thaig of yours... any interesting rumors or legends along the way we would happen to stop and investigate? Does this thaig even actually _exist?_ I don't really envision you spending Artana's last few months underground."

"It does, actually!" Ives insisted, holding both hands up before him in defense. Not that his honor had much hope of being defended before this crowd. "Many Wardens - _most_ , even - do prefer to go down in a shining glint of glory amidst a sea of gritty darkness than to lay addled and rotting in a bed. Such a thaig is a perfect opportunity, and intentionally a bit ... excessive a target."

Ives turned to pace a few steps away, leaning forward and putting his weight on the back of a nearby chair. He could see the both of them in the dusky, spotted mirror before which Isabeau sat, and he preferred that view with the knowledge there would be some interesting reactions forthcoming. "You ... are rather astute, though. I will admit that we may have a side-trip planned. Ah, but who am I kidding? The thaig _is_ the side trip - Artana could probably clear it herself if she had Jean to run circles around the Ogres, waving his shield to distract them."

At this point he rolled his shoulders. It was harder to manipulate those he cared for, but it was really for the best to get them away from Orlais altogether. Yes, Artana needed help to find her salvation and her freedom from the Wardens, but he also felt a nomadic lifestyle really might be the best option for these two. At the least, for the moment.

"Amulets... they _are_ interesting, are they not, _mon fleur_? We haven't the luck of one of yours, but there _is_ a trio of legendary amulets, rumored, if you will... to cure the Darkspawn taint. Has this plan perhaps been stewed and brewed long enough for your discerning palate?"

"Oh, a flower, now, am I? I hope you don't think I'm delicate." Her hand did reach up to wrap around her amulet, though, and her face was more thoughtful than her comment. "Cure the taint... That... might be possible, but it's more likely to be a fool's errand unless those amulets are from-" She stopped herself and glanced at the linen-wrapped object next to her. "Still... hope is difficult to discard, is it not?" She looked back to Ives, a frown on her face. "Will Artana survive long enough to find the amulets? She is quite close to her time, and... and in that I did her no service with my... earlier disagreement." She grimaced, and Ives remembered the rage which had consumed Artana the day after that 'disagreement', a rage fueled in part by the taint which lay within. Wisely, he voice no further incrimination, sensing that even such an obscure regret was more heartfelt than many others' effusive apologies. "I fear for her ability to make such a journey."

Ives turned to give her the dignity of a face to face conversation at this point, the mirror seeming a trifle more inappropriate. "She is a fighter," he assured her. "Artana sees this as a possibility for freedom. Should she find these medallions and survive the process, then she can - we all can - live our lives, debt paid to the Wardens and invisible to their methods of tracking. We'd just have never returned from a dangerous, deadly mission - something many others have done before us. She … wants to see her clan. I think she'll survive, so long as there's hope." And he smiled, sad a thing as it was, and glanced towards the bedroom door. "I want her to do both."

"Hope is a wonderful thing, but it should never be your entire plan." Livilla picked up the object next to her and carefully unwound the cloth from around it, revealing a small hand mirror which she held in front of her face. "Perhaps in this I can help her. I've learned a few things about controlling excessive exposure to the Beyo- the Fade." Her fingers reached for the amulet again, and she stared into the flat, oval surface before her.

Isabeau shifted in her seat. She'd obviously seen the artifact in Livilla's hands before, and just as obviously was uncomfortable around it. Part of her unease became clearer in the next few moments when the temperature in the room plummeted. Bumps rose along Ives' arms as the tang and hum of lyrium filled the air, and he regarded Livilla with a wary caution. Magic was useful, but also an unknown element.

Livilla's eye abruptly turned from pitch black to brilliant white, and the mirror in her hand began to hum faintly, a song that all three in the room recognized: the siren of the taint. Almost as soon as it could be heard, however, it _changed,_ softening to an almost lyrical melody rather than the hum that always scraped at the very edge of hearing for Grey Wardens.

"That is the least unpleasant turn I have ever heard that melody take." Though the magic did make him uneasy, the sound was fascinating to a trained ear. Perhaps not something he would enjoy to hear in concert, but fascinating nonetheless. "Not terribly different than the tune of lyrium. A shame it happens to be from a mirror, though. If I am honest, Artana is almost phobic of them."

"I wonder why," Isabeau murmured, though most of her concentration was on Livilla. "But Livilla always sounds like that, if you get close enough. Granted, you have to be _very_ close to her." She stood and edged past Ives, ignoring his eyebrow raised in speculation at her last comment, and rounded the bed so she could get closer to her friend. It was an intriguing motion because of the concern on her face, and Ives wasn't certain what to make of what was happening.

His scrutiny continued as the music faded into the background once again, the noise apparently taking the white away from Livilla's eye with it. Again he startled and bounded half a step forward when Livilla began to totter. If Isabeau hadn't beaten him to the motion, he would have helped to support her slumped body. Apparently this was not an unexpected reaction to ... whatever she was doing. " ... What is she doing? Is it ... dangerous for her?"

Isabeau continued to hold her up as Livilla took some deep breaths. "In her mind, that's no reason to stop if she can help others," she said quietly. Ives straightened in response to that, his lips held shut. There was no smart response for that. He knew the same all too well himself.

With a visible effort, Livilla pulled herself away from Isabeau's hand, though she gave her friend a wan smile before setting the mirror aside and again fiddling with her amulet. Holding it out to Ives, she said briskly, "Make sure Artana wears this for at least one day. More would be preferable, but I know she can be unreasonably stubborn." Ignoring Ives' raised eyebrow at that remark, she continued, "The spell I placed on it should offset some of the taint in her blood and give her more time. It's not permanent - I've not yet come across a true cure as of yet - but it will sustain her where hope might fail." She swayed slightly, and Isabeau quickly moved closer to her, steadying her, but the outstretched hand with the amulet did not drop. Ives was too wary of that amulet to simply grab it, and the ghost of pain around his neck made him run his fingertips around the dry, slightly pink spots that lingered quite some time out now from _the incident_. "I'll need the amulet back, but not for a few days. That should be enough time for the spell to take effect."

Burn him once, shame on the person or thing at fault of the burning. Twice was into the realm of _his own damn fault_ , so that disposition to not grab the amulet was rather insistent. "Well ... I've hoped for her health since before her body caught up with fate's design. I think it's fair to accept any help I can receive. I think you are blossoming from a bud after all, _mon fleur_." As Ives reached for the amulet his fingertips danced and stretched, the odd hesitation pausing his hand for a few more moments before he reached out and took hold of the amulet swiftly, akin to ripping a bandage off in a hurry to get past the sting.

For all his trouble and hesitation, he received nothing more than a wave of warmth which washed over him, and the vaguest sense of an animalistic chuckle, as if he had amused someone _._

"I declare, lout, you acted as if it were going to bite you. It is merely an amulet. And I am no flower." Even before Ives could retort, she pressed her fingertips against the bridge of her nose and again swayed slightly. That was reason enough for him to simply smile and leave her alone.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Isabeau rise and dash to the wardrobe, returning with a thick robe to bundle her friend into more quickly than he himself could have even thought of the idea. "She'll need to rest, I think. I'm no mage, but I've lived with her long enough to see that... whatever she did wasn't easy."

Indeed, as soon as Livilla was wrapped inside the robe, she buried herself into the pillows on her bed and curled into herself, cradling the mirror in the crook of her arm. "Ah, I understand. I can sympathize with the desire for a pillow."

Moving her hand over the mage's head one last time in a soothing gesture, Isabeau sighed and stood, going once more to the wardrobe to stand in front of it with a thoughtful look on her face. "I assume we'll need a few days to finish getting ready for this trip?"

"It will take a little longer than that. I know that Artana had to submit for approval with the stipulation of 'two recruits.' I'm sure she'll need her fellow Warden-Commander to handle the rest of the paperwork in her absence if she's allowed to depart, so she will undoubtedly prepare it all for him. It is a plan a long time in process, but one that must be executed perfectly, you see." He shrugged, taking the troublesome amulet to his vest pocket. "Alas, I must go. We'll discuss it many a time before we depart, I'm sure, but there is an amulet I would dearly love to persuade Artana to wear. Until next time?" Ives held his hand out for hers, one brow waggling higher than the other to try and pry a response from her.

She laughed lightly and nodded. "Just send us a list of what we need prepare, and I will make sure it is done." Laying a hand on his arm, she strained on her tiptoes and lightly pressed her lips to his cheek. "And thank you, Ives. You've a kind heart for all your other flaws." A twinkle lit her eyes as she walked him to the door, and somehow she maneuvered him outside and closed the door behind him without giving him the opportunity to correct the grievous error of thinking he might have _any_ flaws _._

 _Ah, you win this round of the Game, ma chérie,_ he chuckled in quiet admiration. Clutching the amulet close, he headed up to Artana's quarters, bracing himself for the argument he assumed was inevitable.

Artana was not pleased to hear that Ives had taken it upon himself to discuss the nature of her illness, and hadn't exactly looked on the amulet with the most gratitude possible. He was exhausted from trying to explain how he'd done it out of love from her, yet loved her no less for how vehemently she disagreed. Though he'd have liked nothing more than to end the night coiled around her beneath the covers, she … hadn't come around so easily, though she _had_ at least agreed to wear the necklace. If a scolding night in the cold was the price for buying a few more... years, days, hours - whatever he'd earned, he would cherish it, which was why he had so easily let her retreat to Jean's arms for the night.

As for himself, Ives let his restlessness guide his feet. Habit took him to the quarters he shared with his brother, but the other's absence only reminded him more sharply of why Jean would not return before sunrise. With a sigh, he glanced out the window of the Keep, and saw in the distance the lights of the Garden district, where even at this late hour many parties yet persisted.

Mind made up, Ives glanced into the mirror atop his bureau and released his hair from its queue, a habit from years past when he had attended such parties regularly. Once his appearance suited his purpose, he squared his shoulders and strode from the room, setting a smile on his face which would accent his dimples quite charmingly.

Perhaps it was indeed time to let the Bard come out and play.


	7. Dance With A Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected confrontation forces Ives Durante to realize he must confront the persistent shadow plaguing him, his friends, and his family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to our fantastic beta readers, Mille Libri and ShebasDawn!

 

* * *

His feet moved him along a restless path after he left the Keep as he pondered where to go. Ives needed to wander a while, delving into memories of his past as he began to awaken his inner Bard. There had been a hundred times where he would have preferred a party to the thought of stability and a warm bed - lust instead of love, and the rush of romance instead of the steadiness of devotion. It was strange how foreign the notion felt now, adoring Artana as he did, to attend such a party. Maybe that was why he'd decided to try and find one, to see if he could enjoy it without the intent of stealing away a night with a pretty little book of which he'd never get to know more than the cover.

The Garden district always had a party, the sound of music and the aroma of wine seeming to hover over it on a crisp fall night such as this. After a long, meandering walk over canals and through the warm, flickering glow of street lamps, Ives paused a moment, trying to decide which party should be graced with his presence. On a whim, he picked a passerby - a tall man with blond hair and a cockade of bright feathers on his hat - and followed him until he led them both to an open gate with lights and flowers and laughter.

Ives began to mingle, taking in the sights and sounds as he moved through the crowd. He quickly found a number of former acquaintances and was pulled into several conversations - and had to demur as many polite refusals to the offers for _more_ \- before ending up under a tree of lavender-colored flowers where some people had gathered around a game of dice that had, apparently, reached high stakes. Not in money, no, but in other things: truths, lies, dares, and taunts. A common enough pastime for Orlesian nobles who had outgrown their teens but had not yet acquired the responsibility of their own houses or Court titles yet. He recognized many of them - had, in fact, read the covers of their pretty little books, as it were - and appreciated an opportunity to gather information that would be useful to the Durantes later, whether old Bernard agreed or not.

One he did not know had just relinquished the dice to a rather pretty lady with hair tinted pink in the new style of the youngest members of Celene's Court of Ladies. The man, tall and lean with hair dark as Ives' own, laughed at the comment the woman said as she took his place, and ran a practiced finger down what was exposed of her back before stepping away, a motion which placed him close to Ives. With a chuckle, the man observed, "Ah, I did not expect to see you in a place such as this, ser." He signaled a passing waiter. "You have not been in such a gathering for many years, I understand."

The blood chilled in Ives' veins as that familiar lilt reached his ears, but it wouldn't do to let the man win such an admittedly minor round of the Game between them. "I don't know if I'd say _many_ years," Ives returned, eyes remaining one place whilst ears focused on another, taking in as many angles as he possibly could without jumbling the information he gleaned from any of them. Only once he'd finished reading the lip motions of a whispering noble (when would they learn that when they whisper, they more clearly enunciate the words, and thus more carefully move their lips?) did he give his company a proper glance, half-hoping his ears had mistaken the identification. "And yet I'm afraid that even in those indulgences I've had here and again, I've never been properly introduced to you before. Strange, I never forget a face."

"Oh, we've met in passing," the man said as he took a glass of wine from the tray presented to him. The light behind him outlined the contour of his face, throwing the details of his features into shadow, but the profile and single visible eye of midnight blue were more than enough to confirm the identity. _Martin_. "It is true that we are not well-acquainted. You mostly worked with the Empress when officially part of the Court, no? I had other patrons." He winked that deep blue eye at a woman who happened to be passing by, eliciting a blown kiss and giggle from her. "Different circles." He looked away from Ives, towards the building that housed the guests of the party who had separated into couples and sought both a private place and something softer than the ground. "Though if rumor is true, we share something else in common besides music." He sipped his wine and leaned back, deeper into the shadows, which obscured his face even further.

Everything about this man was dangerous, and Martin obviously knew more than what he simply put to words. The profile, the mannerisms... A memory of the tingling that had been induced in his arm with a mere touch drove Ives to caution as he engaged the man in the Game. "Oh? Hmm… A penchant for fragrances? Appreciation of art? A fondness for a full moon hanging romantically in the sky? Perhaps it can be a part of this formal introduction we've yet to have."

"We both have a particular woman on our minds tonight, I think." The woman to whom he'd given the dice suddenly laughed and clapped her hands as she won a toss. The man smiled. "And neither of us can be with her. It is difficult to _share_ such beauty, no?" The words were spoken quietly, on the cusp of hearing, and still Martin would not face Ives directly. "Even more difficult to protect them, at times. Strong, beautiful, and stubborn. It is a challenge to aid them when they think they can best protect themselves."

Ives' lip twitched ever so slightly, his smile a little difficult to maintain in the face of such an inappropriate and uncomfortable mention of Artana. Recovery was swift nonetheless, and he chuckled softly. "Ah, well, I think these days she is the one who protects me. I never was so intimidating, you know. Ah, lala, you wouldn't know it! I forgot, you see? We're such fast friends it slips my mind we haven't met."

"Your woman, she protects many, it is true. You, ser, seem to have followed a different path than protection." Martin took a sip from the glass again, and the woman who he'd given the dice to came up and demanded his attention, whispering into his ear and then looking at him with an expectant smile. He chuckled and handed her his wine. "I will be with you shortly, _Baronne_." He nodded towards a more secluded area of the yard where a seat for two sat drenched in moonlight, yet another example of how often the Game of Politics and the Game of _Amour_ intertwined. "Wait for me there, _ma chére_."

She took his earlobe between her teeth before relinquishing him, then took a sip of his wine and flounced away, arranging herself on the love seat without taking her eyes off of him.

"Forgive the interruption, ser, but our conversation is almost done. It is, after all, mere chance that we encountered each other here." The peculiar emphasis on the word _here_ was plain only to one trained as a bard. "However, I feel compelled to give you the same advice that I gave you upon our last meeting: protect her. And I do not speak of your amber-eyed beauty." For the first time he looked directly at Ives, and the lantern light caught on two mismatched eyes, one of midnight blue and the other of forest green. "Though to protect the one is to protect the other, I assure you. Should my angel fall, you and yours will soon follow. _All_ of yours, to compensate for the loss of _all_ of mine." He grinned and pushed forward. "Well, the message I had for the _Baronne_ 's husband is delivered, so my business here is done. Pray to your Maker that we do not meet again, ser. Perhaps he will even answer such a prayer, no?"

With those words, he turned from Ives and walked away - and also away from the baroness, heading towards the house itself. Ives couldn't help it - he glanced towards the flower-draped, wrought-backed _banc d'amour_ and the similarly decorated woman with the pink hair, and felt a chill in his blood.

Though in much the same position she'd been in when she'd first sat down, her head had tilted back, leaving her eyes to stare up at the moon. He didn't need to get closer to recognize the glazed look in her eyes or confirm that her chest no longer rose and fell. The glass had dropped to the ground from her lifeless fingers, the last bit of wine soaking into the soil beneath the grass.

When Ives quickly turned his head to seek her killer, he found nothing - as if the man had vanished into the shadows.

.~^~.

"Ah, home, sweet home," Ives said, suppressing a wince. The sun did dance a little too brightly in his eyes considering how ungodly an hour this was after going out to play so late last night, but that wasn't the main contributing factor to the dull ache pulsing in his head. _Such a beautiful home,_ he thought, a sad note belying the shattered sense of nostalgia. _Yet it is no longer mine._

It was the _only_ proper home in the Arts district, which in itself was the only district in Val Royeaux with wealth enough to rival the Garden district near the Palace. The entire property was fenced and gated, the sprawling estate's grand wall and green grounds almost out of place in an otherwise condensed living area of tightly packed buildings with apartments above their respective shops and cafés. This home clearly predated the rest, and neither the beautifully polished white limestone estate nor its smaller auxiliary home of brown brick at the back showed signs of giving in to the city around them. It may well have been called a Palace if it were just a few stories taller, and there were few homes in the city that could rival its size. Court nobility who could hold their tongue enough to gild their jealousy regarded it as one of the most beautiful homes in all the city.

The Estate and the Durantes themselves represented a moment captured in time; an Orlais that not only defined chivalric ideals but also abided by them. Just as the estate nestled in the middle of the district that resonated with all in Val Royeaux, so too the Durantes were held in quiet esteem by the people of the city.

 _As long as they never have to meet old Bernard, at least..._ Sadly, Ives knew that was a thought best shared only between brothers, given the nature of their father.

"I'm glad to be here, personally. Thank you for coming with us, Isabeau," Jean said as they passed through the great iron gates that opened onto the gravel path. They paused to take in the smooth lines and graceful curves of the buildings where the twins had been raised. Them, and many, many before them - a history that stretched all the way to the man who had built these magnificent structures, the first man to bear the name _Durante._ "Would you like to meet my children?"

"I may have already promised her such an introduction, but I'm not so sure it's a good idea, Jean. We've a shadow today, I can feel it," Ives cautioned, even as he shared a glance with Isabeau confirming it to be a mutual sensation.

"I'm not leaving without seeing them." Jean insisted. "Let our shadow come, I would love to greet him." Ives' eyes shifted swiftly to see if his brother had made a gesture to fit those words. It was a sad day indeed when such a kindhearted man instinctively rested his hand on the hilt of the sword at his hip. "I have quite the reception planned."

As his eyes jumped back to Isabeau, he saw the end of a wince across her face. She'd removed it quickly enough, but he bet that she felt the same: how must Martin have hurt the gentle man to goad such a reaction out of him? They both knew that Jean was capable of killing, naturally - after all, he _was_ a warrior. Yet... it was generally uncharacteristic of him to act in such a way, enough that an empathetic creature such as Isabeau would most certainly know it took a special kind of barb for such a backlash. "It would be better for everyone, I think, if the shadow remained just that," she said quietly.

When they entered the estates they were greeted by smiling servants and forced to put on cheerful faces which did not reflect the sober mood within. The walls were decorated with rather chaste art that Ives had clearly not chosen himself, the frescoes on the ceiling likewise of a largely religious theme. There was gilding at almost every opportunity given the family's trade in the silver and gold mines of Orlais, yet it never passed into excess. Artisans had crafted this house with love and devotion, which was no surprise - the Durantes were notorious for paying well for true beauty, and for finding it in men and women who would work for barter.

Ives paused to admire a table whose base was an ornately carved tree trunk. As Jean inquired as to the whereabouts of the children, the bard smiled and recalled the beautiful story of the elven carpenter man who had worked for the Durantes while Ives himself was a child. That table, two of the benches outside, and repairs to the grand mantelpiece were all the cost of two true, pure golden rings of finer design than the elf could have managed under any other employer in Val Royeaux - even, perhaps, in all of Orlais. From what Ives understood, the elf and his wife had kept them hidden for fear they'd be stolen. The wife had stayed on for three years at the house as a servant before they took their savings and moved away.

_Hopefully to a place where they might be able to proudly wear those fine symbols for the rest of their days without fear of bandits... or nobles._

"I was not informed of a visit from you today, boy," a smooth voice said from the stairs at the far end of the room.

 _I'd say speak of the demon,_ Ives thought, the smile from the warm memories twitching only slightly before he set it back in place, _but it would be an insult to demons everywhere._ "Ah, _Bernard_ , lala, we've an invitation from the young Mademoiselle Jennine. A _standing_ invitation." Oh, how his experiences over the years had taught him the ways to inflame the man he had once called _Father_. Any mannerism not strictly upstanding and _noble_ , including flippant phrases like Ives' trademark _lala,_ always inspired a twitch on Bernard's face. Fanning his ire by blatantly ignoring the man's highly esteemed title of Marquis was disrespectful enough without also reminding him that _any_ 'subordinate' - in this case, his granddaughter Jennine - had any ability to circumvent his authority.

Ives was certain he would have been disowned years before he was formally struck from the papers of inheritance had it not been for his brilliance as a Court Bard. The twins' choice to join the Grey Wardens over Bernard's objections had been the final straw to estrange them. Still, Bernard knew he would become a villain in the eyes of the children, who adored their father, if he put his foot down and countermanded that standing invitation, and so it stood intact. Clearly he didn't need to be _loved_ by his 'subordinates,' but he did need them to respect his authority, or he'd wind up bequeathing the title to a distant cousin - and lose the estates and title to a _lesser_ branch of the Durantes.

And Ives knewBernard would _never_ stand for that.

Predictably, Bernard began to puff up in indignation, though any objections he might have had halted when Isabeau cleared her throat delicately. In an instant he transformed from unpleasant curmudgeon to a man who understood the value of good manners. "Ah, forgive my rudeness, Madame, for I did not see you there." He strode into the room fully, ignoring Ives on his way to Isabeau to bow in a proper, if not overly enthusiastic, fashion. "Marquis Bernard Durante, at your service, Madame. If I could have the pleasure of your name?"

Isabeau inclined her head and presented her hand to Bernard in a gesture which would not have been out of place in Court. Her carriage cultivated the impression of a particular _type_ of Orlesian nobility, complete with the carefully disinterested look Players of a certain skill in the Game cultivated to indicate a willingness to be engaged. "Comtess Isabeau de Brienne, Marquis Durante. It is an honor to make your acquaintance."

 _Comtess..._ Well, that answered a lot. He'd had his suspicions, and had gathered as much information as he'd been able to in his relatively short time with Isabeau, but he was impressed: to be a Comtess, and regarded as such, was notable enough, but to be a Warden as well? That in itself was enough to tell him she was better at the Game than she let on. Traditionally, Wardens were not supposed to have any political ties or influences whatsoever - among other reasons, the Order's neutrality was crucial to the tolerance of known blood mages and criminals within their ranks. Such unsavory individuals were half of the reason they even had recruits in times of peace. It might not have been glamorous, but an empty Keep wouldn't hold a darkspawn swarm at bay.

As the Game dictated, Bernard took Isabeau's hand and fluttered a kiss in the air above it before letting it go. "The day is brightened by your presence." Though they were words Ives might have uttered with a salacious grin, Bernard's delivery was pure rote and dictated by the Game, though a light of curiosity did come to his eyes as he straightened from his bow and released her hand.

"I am here to make the acquaintance of Mademoiselle Jennine, Marquis Durante. I apologize for the lack of notice, but once I heard of the charming young lady and her brother, I wished to meet them myself." She issued a charming smile at Bernard. "I understand that the interruption of your day is quite unforgivable. Would you accept a gift from my estates to make up for the inconvenience? A bottle of Montfort Red liqueur, perhaps?"

"There is no imposition," Jean dismissed, taking a step forward. He was no friend of Bernard's, and certainly did not consider himself a son of the man. Ives knew what he was thinking: Why waste such a fine gift on such a wretch of a man? The superiority of Montfort Red was legend enough without their personal knowledge of the liqueur, and it graced only the finest of wine cellars across Orlais – including, apparently, that of _Comtess_ Isabeau. After all, in their youth they had vacationed every winter at the Montfort estate associated with the lineage of the very first Marquis, Henri Durante. Granted, the fetching blond fellow whose portrait hung above the grand mantel had not been so grand himself in his early years, not enough to even have a surname. A man of legend, Henri de Montfort's legacy was not well reflected by the man who currently held the title, a fact which had grated the twins since their mother had been ousted from the main estate in favor of Bernard's mistress. Though they'd mourned their mother, neither had mourned the passing of her usurper.

Ignoring the son of his body entirely, Bernard smiled at Isabeau. "That is overly generous, Mademoiselle. I need no apology from such a fine lady as yourself. However, I worry at the timing of your visit. At this moment, the children are with their Dancing Master to learn this season's menuet." He hesitated, though he pointedly did _not_ look at Jean or Ives. "As you are here already, I will not turn you away, but please forgive our inability to greet you as your station merits. Perhaps once you are finished with meeting Jennine, you could join me for a drink?"

Before either brother could react to such an offer, Isabeau smiled and demurred politely with a shake of her head. "Alas, my duties do take much of my time. I appreciate the invitation, however, and insist upon sending along the liqueur. I would wish no ill will between us or our Houses."

Bernard's smile broadened before retreating behind a polite mask once more, a look of smug satisfaction with which Ives was all too familiar. "If you insist, I will not stand in your way." His bow was a trifle deeper than tradition dictated this time around, and Isabeau's curtsey was studiously correct in response. "I must attend to my own duties, then. I bid you good day, Comtess." As they both rose, he inclined his head to her one final time and swept from the room - again ignoring the two men who shared his blue eyes and the stamp of the Durante features, but little else.

"Ah, lala, but I hope his heart decides it's had its fill of his ... _hem_ , fine, upstanding generosity," Ives said with the most restraint one could fit into a single sentence. "Soon, with any luck."

"Ives," Jean scolded, an admonition which forced Ives to admit that his twin possessed a kinder heart than he could claim, almost to a fault. His brother seemed incapable of true hatred, even when two men in his life were trying their hardest to provoke such a reaction from the gentle man.

"You're right. We should go to the ballroom and see who this esteemed instructor is that is so well trusted to teach our precious almost-adults something as extraordinarily important as a rendition of the menuet. I'm sure you dance it yourself, hmm, Your Ladyship?" With a twinkle in his eyes, Ives held his hand to her and took the first step towards the ballroom.

"Better than you do, lout," she answered with aplomb, though she took his hand with grace. "From what I have seen, I would expect your brother to be the better partner in a dance, personally. You seem a bit too concerned with your own skills to enhance those of another." Her mouth twitched, however, and she looked back at Jean with a smile. "You said Jennine was close to her first Court presentation. The granddaughter of a Marquis needs to be absolutely flawless in her first Court dance. Hopefully she takes after you in regards to attention to detail."

"I would hope more so," Jean said, a dose of red in his cheeks that simply begged for explanation.

Well, at the least, it begged for teasing. "He wasn't quite so successful in his ballroom debut. Thankfully, he more than made up for it in his sportsman's duel. I trust Jennine will be more than capable of far outperforming him in both. Of course, I'm more concerned with my own skills..." There was a smirk on his face that could be heard in his words, and the sound of soft music from an enchanted, windless music box had finally started tickling at their ears. They had trained to its tune for years, and with good reason - it was an antique from an era where enchanted objects were a truly exorbitant rarity.

Isabeau released Ives' hand and spun into a graceful turn that made her dress flare beautifully, ending the turn next to Jean so she could put her hand lightly on his arm. "I was tutored in the art of dancing before ever I touched a weapon, so I have an unfair advantage. I assure you, there is no shame in receiving tutelage from a Dancing Master before the first presentation to the Court, particularly for one with Jennine's social status. The first impression with the Empress is, so I have heard, the most important. Please don't let that lout tease her about being instructed in such a situation. I'm not sure I trust his ability to refrain." The sound of the music grew steadily louder as they moved down the hallway. "I'm sure Jennine will be a credit to you and her mother."

Whether or not she intended to say more, her words were circumvented as the music came to an end and a voice echoed in the hallway, a voice whose lilt and timbre was instantly identifiable and made all of them stiffen in recognition.

"Ah, your steps are light as a feather, Mademoiselle Jennine, but your _plié_ requires a bit more depth for when you are presented to the Empress and the Court. Observe."

Ives was not alone as he quickened his steps to the entrance of the ballroom. The doors had been left open to allow the air wafting in from the gardens through the open patio doors opposite to cool the occupants of the room as they danced, which allowed them to enter the room without worrying about a pause to open the door.

They still came to halt at the entrance, Ives reaching back to stop Jean out of instinct so as not to alarm the children overly much. Bernard, in particular, was quite sensitive to anxiety in his father and older siblings. His entry into the world had been abrupt and early, a circumstance which seemed to have lingering effects on his development. He had grown up more cautious and with less exuberance than his brother and sister. He was the first one they saw, twirling in place with his hands held out and eyes closed, grinning happily even though the music had died.

Their eyes were next drawn to where Jennine had lowered herself into a deep curtsey across from the equally deep bow of her brother Jules, while around them circled a man who moved with a sinuous grace that could have been acquired through long years of dancing - or from other, more sinister habits. As the three in the doorway watched, Martin drew to a halt and clapped his hands together. "Excellent. That was a far superior effort. You've made excellent progress during our lessons."

Ives squeezed Jean's arm again to hold him still, stepping forward to take the front position of the three. Isabeau had time and time again evidenced needing protection from this murderous monster, and Jean ... Well, Ives needed to protect his brother, too - if not for the children, he would probably already have tried to attack and, most likely, wound up being in over his head.

Bernard had stopped spinning by this point and came to a halt, weaving slightly in place as the room apparently didn't stop with him. He pointed at the music box and said, "Again!"

Martin laughed and swept him off his feet before any of the other adults could react. "But of course! Only the best for the Durante children, no?"

"But I want this dance!" Ives protested colourfully, stepping forward into the ballroom. "Bernard, my handsome fellow, you've grown! And who is your friend, hm?" It was up to him to command the tone in the room, to keep the children and Isabeau from panicking and Jean from attacking. No doubt Jennine and Jules had already seen Jean's tension when they first turned at the cue of Ives' voice. Hopefully he'd replaced the taut jaw and clenched fist, but with the impressionable, slightly... touched Bernard in the arms of a murderous rogue such as Martin, he had to focus on righting that wrong first.

"Mai- Mait- Martin!" Bernard said brightly, and Martin chuckled.

Settling the boy against his torso, Martin walked to the music box - and away from Ives. "Am I to presume, young master, that one of these men is your noble father?" He leaned down so that Bernard could reach the music box, and the boy lowered and raised the lid so that he could restart the song.

"Papa! Uncle Ives!" Jennine began to rush to Jean, but the pointed sound of a cleared throat from behind slowed her steps.

"Grace and dignity, Mademoiselle, in all things," Martin said with a trace of admonition in his voice as the strain of music began to fill the room again. The lighting in the room shifted with the movement of the curtains around the doors leading outside, and for a moment, only his blue eye was visible. "Recall what I said about your deportment in the Court."

Taking a breath, Jennine nodded and then settled into a graceful _plié_ , much like the one she had been in when they entered the room. "Noble Father," she said in an even tone. "I am most pleased to see you."

Ives persisted towards Bernard, wanting the boy as far away from Martin as possible. At least Jean had the benefit of a natural smile when his children were approaching him with excitement and in good health.

"In the Empress' Court, in the position you hope for, I think you will find that a ... a lack of personality and excitement within reason will not excite the Empress, either." Jean was all too happy to uproot the man's teachings in a fell swoop, Ives could tell in the reduced tension of his posture as he gladly leaned the slight bit to give his blossoming young woman a hug. "You want to be a member of her personal guard... nothing less."

Ives looked away so that he wouldn't smirk or snicker when he saw Jean turn a hidden glare on Martin. It was admirable how he was containing himself, but there was still a priority to address. "Give us a hug, and then let us have that dance."

Martin whirled in place with perfect balance and presented the giggling boy to Ives. "Ah, but of course you may dance with the young lord. I am but the Dancing Master, not his clearly beloved uncle, after all."

As Ives reached out to take Bernard from the man, he locked gazes with Martin. It was a shock to meet those eyes squarely for the first time with no shadows between them. In that instant, Ives realized Martin had discarded a veil constantly held in place, and he saw a man so focused, so obsessed, that he would only allow interference when it suited him. Something slumbered deep within, and if it were roused...

Luckily for little Bernard, the beast remained asleep for the nonce. Ives quickly pulled the small boy into his arms, fighting the intense chill that ran down his spine as he averted his gaze from the mismatched eyes with an effort. His smile again in place, he returned to the others, moving with the beat of the music. "There we are!" He began to dance to the music with the little boy, partially to keep the boy happy, but mostly to get away from Martin. "Ah, lala, such a pity we must cut this lesson short, but we were already running late! This discussion can at least wait until a nice civilized meal, no? Jules, Jennine, why don't you go check with Housekeeper Nana about lunch? It should be ready now, and they're just awaiting the word to set the table."

"I'll go!" Jennine said. "It will be fun to have lunch with you, Papa." Before pulling away from him, she leaned forward and the tiniest bit upwards and kissed her father's cheek, the height she had inherited from her father more very much in evidence even though she had not yet reached her fourteenth birthday. As she sailed gracefully from the room, she offered a charming smile and tip of her head to Isabeau.

"Can Maitre Martin join us, Papa?" Jules ventured, still trying to figure out why his father was so withdrawn.

"Oh, Monsieur Jules, I am most flattered for the invitation, but that would hardly be _proper_." It was an odd twist of Jean's earlier comment, a little sting with little power, but his next act carried more than a little weight as he quickly moved across the floor and seized Isabeau's hand, bowing to her in the proper fashion. "Still, it is my duty to instruct the proper behavior. A pity the Mademoiselle has departed, but surely Monsieur Jules would appreciate a final demonstration before we end the lesson entirely?"

Jules appeared confused as he looked back and forth between the 'Dancing Master' and his father, and Martin took advantage of the lack of refusal to rise and sweep Isabeau into a position that was _just_ this side of proper. The stance, however, did not match that of the rather tame menuet which Martin had likely been instructing them, but rather the dance reserved only for adults. "Then observe, Monsieur Jules, the dance which is the pinnacle of all Court dances: the waltz."

They began to move to the music, both partners reflecting an ease and grace with the motions which spoke of the mastery of years of training. Their shoes softly scuffed the wooden floor in time with the faint strains of the music were the only sounds in the room beyond the box, and their eyes never strayed from the other's, save when the dance dictated Martin twirl Isabeau in a graceful arc.

Jules watched, fascinated, and Ives knew why. Etiquette dictated that 'Maitre Martin' would have been restrained from teaching the far more intimate waltz to Jules or his sister until they were older. It was a dance restricted to those who were of marriageable age, and even by the standards of the Orlesian Court, none of Jean's children were quite old enough. The two boys saw only what Martin intended them to see: a masterful example of one of the most beautiful dances in Orlais, a dance perfectly within Maitre Martin's duties to perform despite his rather presumptuous choice of a partner.

Ives, of course, saw far more than that. He had noticed Isabeau's balled up fist when Martin approached her, and the darting glance she'd sent the children as she'd allowed her hand to be taken. A master of the waltz himself, he recognized the stiffness in her shoulders and the way her neck was locked with tension. Though her feet moved easily through the dance, her face was carefully blank, a mask as thorough as those worn to many of the Balls at the Court. To any but a Bard, Isabeau appeared to be enjoying the interlude, but those cues alerted him to her profound unhappiness. More subtle still, however, was the odd acquiescence he saw in Isabeau as she looked up into Martin's eyes. She wasn't happy, but Ives also suspected that, given the chance, she would not struggle against her captor. And _that_ , he did _not_ understand.

It would have been impossible for him to transfer Bernard to Jules more quickly, but it still didn't feel like it had been quickly enough. "Hup, here we are! Jules, my handsome, manly nephew, can you tout this very grown little brother of yours downstairs for lunch? I'm sure you'll see many a waltz in your day. No need to dally on this little show for attention." He winked, patting Jules' shoulder to usher him along. It didn't aid the boy's confusion, but Ives knew Jules was clever enough that he shouldn't be - and wasn't - surprised at the occasional odd behaviour from his Bardic Uncle Ives.

WIth only a nod to acknowledge his uncle's request, Jules turned and moved to the exit, but their escape was hindered when Bernard suddenly burst out, "Papa! Hug!" and began to squirm energetically against his brother's grip. "Let me down! Papa!"

Ives watched Jean tear his eyes away from Martin and hurry to his sons, forcing a smile on his face for the sake of Bernard. He was holding his arms out to his youngest, no doubt aware that if he ignored the request, he'd do far more damage than even his usual absence could ever cause. Embracing Bernard in firm hug, he began to talk animatedly even while still moving towards the door in a quickstep. "You are as fine a dancer as I have seen," he told his youngest, encouraging the boy's giggling with a bit of judicious tickling.

Ives figured there was no doubt that he would need to explain Jean's tense, controlled posture and distracted appeasement of Bernard to the observant young Jules, but at the moment, there were more important matters at hand. He began to move towards the dancing couple, trying to look relaxed for Bernard's sake still even as he closed the distance between himself and his quarry.

Even as Jean ensured that the supposed students left the room with decorous speed, Martin continued to waltz with Isabeau as if he had not a care in the world, each arc and sweep taking them closer to the door facing the gardens. Just before the door shut behind Jules the couple vanished through the curtains fluttering in the wind – and Ives broke into a run after them.

He emerged onto the raised patio which overlooked the gardens and found Martin indulging in a rather thorough kiss with an Isabeau whose struggles appeared weaker than Ives would have expected. Even as Ives watched, the man slipped something into the bodice of her dress, then let his hand linger to explore it for the bare instant left to him before Ives interrupted. The intrusion on Isabeau was insulting, and though the bard was sure she'd had her fill of strange men touching her, with Martin so close there wasn't any other way to break in between them save to wedge between the two, his back brushing along Isabeau while his front suffered the same with Martin. No matter the slither up his spine, he kept his posture smooth.

"Ah, ah, ah, this is a chaste ballroom. We have a room upstairs for debauchery, I can promise you that. It's by invitation only, though, my friend." His hand slipped to his side, closing around the hilt of his dagger. "I suggest you abide by house rules and wait for that invitation to come before making any daring assumptions, hm?"

Isabeau's presence fell away, but Martin did not back down, despite the fact that only inches separated them, and thus Ives kept his attention focused ahead. Those odd mismatched eyes met his and narrowed, the beast in their depths which had before been quiescent while relinquishing Bernard now fully awake and enraged after being separated from his chosen prey. Martin reached out and wrapped his hand around Ives' own, shoving the half-drawn dagger back into the sheath with a surprisingly forceful grip. "And _I_ suggest you do not involve yourself in something which does not concern _you._ "

The bard found himself shoved violently aside just as Jean emerged from the ballroom, face red with anger, and charged Martin, not even bothering to draw his sword as he swung at the man, letting his fury and momentum carry him forward. Oblivious to anyone but his target, Jean roared, _"Foul, cowardly heathen, stand here and pay reparation!"_ When he reached Martin, he punched with all his might, aiming for the man's face.

With a merry laugh - as if a moment earlier he had not been in a rage to equal the warrior's own - Martin halted the larger man's blow with his hand, diverting it with surprising strength. "Ah, my dear friend Jean. You have such charming children, no?" Abuptly he lashed out and hooked Jean's right knee with his ankle, causing him to stagger. As Ives finally regained his balance and took a step towards the struggle, Martin changed tactics and disengaged from the enraged Jean with a swift backstep. Leaping without looking onto the railing of the raised patio, he balanced perfectly for a moment, looking at the still-stunned Isabeau. "Ah, parting is such sweet sorrow, my angel."

And then he fell back, dropping straight down from the height to land on the ground almost soundlessly. Jean righted himself and ran to the railing an instant too late, infuriated to see his chance slip away. "I will find you! I swear it!" His voice was practically a roar as he leaned over the balcony, a warrior's resonance very much different than a bard's.

"I look forward to it, my friend!" Martin gave a final mock salute to the heavily panting man above him and then slipped away, ducking into the underbrush that dotted the estates and quickly disappearing from sight.

Ives reached his brother's side, hand clenched tightly around the hilt of his now useless dagger, and shifted restlessly on his feet as he debated pursuit before discarding the idea. A sideways glance showed Jean in the midst of a glorious umbrage the likes of which he had not seen in years, and he hesitated to engage his twin while the warrior was still in its grasp. After all, a glance to his reddened fist on the stone railing seemed to indicate that punch he'd been cheated from throwing was still itching beneath the surface.

With a frustrated shake of his head, he turned to Isabeau. When he reached her side he put an arm around her shoulders. "Are you all right, _ma chérie?"_

Maker knew _he_ wasn't - seeing Martin around the children had shaken him, particularly since the invasion into their lives had been accomplished with such ease. The encounter itself had also left an impression on Ives. The more he thought on it, the more he realized that he had drawn a line in the conflict, giving Martin a point to press against until he found the amount required to break it. By coming between Martin and his prey, by offering the threat of his own weapon while doing so, the Game had been shifted beyond its original parameters, even if Ives had not actually engaged the man in combat. Would Ives have used his dagger only for intimidation, or would he have gone through with the kill if given the opportunity, despite his own personal preference to leave his opponents alive? Would he-

Abruptly hands pushed him away, and he glanced at Isabeau, startled by her sudden rejection of him. Her eyes were wide and staring, and he realized that she still wasn't seeing Ives Durante standing next to her. Putting a gentle smile on his face, he spread his arms slowly. " _Chérie,_ I don't bite quite that hard. At least not in the wrong places... Ah, lala. It is only me, the same silly lout I have been since the day we met."

A shudder wracked her body, but the words, the manner, the tone: they accomplished the task. Her breathing slowed as her eyes focused on him, and he broadened his smile when the spark of true recognition returned. "Ives! I- I'm sorry." She bit her lip, and her eyes suddenly filled with tears as she looked at Jean, the guilt plain on her face.

It was an unfortunate moment to shift her focus. "Can you not restrain yourself for even a moment?" Jean scolded, and Ives knew full well he was catching a projection of the warrior's feeling of helplessness. He couldn't blame the man, either.

"True, true. I apologize, Isabeau. I'll refrain from such brazen inappropriateness... there are children about, and that does require a more restrained personality. But I wonder if I should stay..." There were reasons far more than he would give, but it was best that he slip away while Isabeau was still unaware he'd drawn the little box from her bodice, or before she might realize he was starting to hatch a plan. "The children are never on their best behavior with me around. Perhaps with the knowledge you have forgiven me, I could be on my way to tend to a few errands?"

That seemed to help her regain a bit of strength, and she smiled at him. Stepping closer so she could speak in a lower tone, she said, "I can never stay mad at you for long, lout. Before you go, though... do you think Jean would mind if- I mean, the children don't _know_ about Martin, even if they have their suspicions now. Do you think I should warn them? I'm sure he'll try again - he knows how vulnerable children are once they have placed their trust - and no guards can keep him out." She shivered as her hand went to her neck. "He can be... very charming when he needs to be, and very good at allaying concerns once he has found a way in. It is the least I can do for poor Jean." The guilt had returned, and she glanced at Jean once more.

"Oh, _chérie_ , how you always know precisely what to say," Ives said cheerfully, the duplicity to his words subtle even for a Court Bard. She had no reason to suspect him of saying such a thing because she had put even more worry in his mind, and he preferred it that way. The implication that Martin would not leave the matter well enough alone now that his position had been exposed, that he would try to get to the children _again..._ Masking a shudder, Ives smiled at her. The less she knew of his ... intended personal involvement with Martin, the happier she might stand to be in life. "Yes, I think you might. The older children do know a good bit about the Game, yet so does old Bernard - and Martin was still able to be appointed Dancing Master. Forewarned is forearmed, however, and both of the older children would be better able to withstand future attempts of manipulation if you spoke with them. Tools that might serve you well, _oui_?"

She nodded, once more considering Jean. "Will he be all right?"

Ives glanced to Jean as well. They shared a lingering moment wherein nothing was _said_ , but enough had been conveyed that Jean moved back into the ballroom. It was a feat to keep the frown off of Ives' face. Would Jean be all right? That was a loaded question. He hadn't been _all right_ for four years, since the death of his wife and near loss of his son. Artana had become the closest thing in his life to _all right_ , and Ives knew full well he himself had stolen half of that to a terse concession. The children were his only hope of _all right_ in the future, but to escape the life the other Bernard - the father neither of the twins ever referred to as such - had been molding for them, he'd had to give up all but the rarest of connections with them.

Jean Durante was, in fact, _not_ all right. "I am positive of it, _mon floraison_." Turning a bright smile to his dear friend, he leaned forward to plant a delicate kiss on the tip-top of her forehead. "Watch him with the children. I'm sure you'll see it yourself."

Though apparently she didn't fully believe his declaration, she nodded and entered the ballroom, face determined. At least this way, they would be able to tend to the children while Ives tended to... other matters.

Martin's Game had long been in motion, but the next move would determine whether or not Ives could slip a few extra cards up his own sleeve to make sure the man would lose.

If nothing else, maybe he would ensure Martin wouldn't gain the ultimate victory.


	8. The Caged Lion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The time has come: the lines have been drawn, the stage set, and the musicians prepared. For the sake of his friends and family, Ives Durante must call upon his bardic prowess and confront Martin!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to our fantastic beta readers, Mille Libri and ShebasDawn!

 

* * *

After leaving the Durante estate, mind afire with the nature and consequence of their encounter with Martin there, Ives eventually found his way to a park overlooking the bustling central market in front of the Grand Cathedral. The light of the sun struck the looming white building, giving it a sheen which made it glow and glisten. The effect, combined with the ever-present ethereal melody of the Chant, added a special beauty to the city, one in which he normally would have allowed himself to delight. Yet his mind could not stop considering, weighing, and planning: Martin _had_ to be dealt with, and soon.

The trip was looming, though after the events at the Durante estate it seemed less an adventure and more a desperate move. Jean had already been in questionable spirits, knowing what the trip ultimately meant for Artana, and the threat to his children would only dampen his mood even further. As connected to Jean as he was, it bothered Ives to see him like this and know he would hurt even more. The smiling giant could ache so badly inside it burned, yet would still always offer a laugh, always have time for a pint, and always give of his time to any who asked it of him. After all, Jean and Ives were not the only ones who knew what awaited Artana: most of the Wardens had their was not uncommon for a Grey Warden to be accompanied to the Deep Roads by friends when the time came, even if they were alone at the end of all things.

Something else nagged at the bard, of course, and with Isabeau and Livilla accompanying them, it could not be dismissed any more than Artana's fate, and now also aligned with the danger posed to the children. Their shadow persisted in complicating matters, even before today's almost tragic events. Ives knew with certainty that their shadow would move along with them grew with every passing hour. It was difficult enough to play a Game here, on the public stage - in the middle of nowhere, the difficulty came in knowing when, if ever, you were safe. Ives was certain he'd hardly have an hour's sleep a night as he wondered what lurked, even leaving the Wardens, the Thieves' Guild, and all of his _other_ obligations behind.

Leaving things behind had once been his blessing. After this morning, he just couldn't be sure it held true anymore. Ives knew that Jean would find it difficult to sleep at night from the thought of Martin near his children, no matter the precautions which had been taken, and no matter the knowledge that Martin would follow them rather than stay in Val Royeaux to plague the children. The fear had been planted, and taken root quite successfully.

_Those eyes..._

Ives paused at a bench alongside a canal to sit and let the glow fade from the sky, wishing he could spend a moment to simply marvel at the red-orange glow beyond the colourful buildings in varied heights and designs that wove the tapestry of Val Royeaux. In all of Thedas, surely no city was so beautiful to behold. The music wafting so gently in the air, the pride and decorum in presentation, the surplus of a successful nation - yet beneath... In all of Thedas, surely no city could be so _ugly_ within. What a thing to mourn, this terrible Game!

In his years as a Court Bard, Ives had encountered what he had thought were all possible variations of the Game which ruled the nobility of Orlais. Poorly played, masterfully played, nonchalantly, any one word which could describe it, Ives had seen it. Yet with Martin... overall, his Game made no sense.

Perhaps it was to blame on the _nouvelle_. These _new_ bards knew nothing of finesse and accomplishment. Never before had assassination and stealth been such a requirement to play the Game in Val Royeaux. Martin's gambit against Jean, the most pure-hearted bastard Ives had ever met in the often corrupt Val Royeaux, had proven overwhelmingly successful, yet had not truly harmed the children to which he so obviously had access. Surely _that_ would be a crushing blow, so why had he not swung? Likewise, his twisted obsession with Isabeau seemed to totter between gross adoration and intent to harm, his gifts showing concern while his actions seemed carefully placed to break her down.

It left Ives with the greatest of quandaries: What angle did he need to play to _win_ this Game? For all he had done in his years of playing with the most sophisticated of bards, somehow this seemed more complicated. It posed a thought so hard to believe that he chuckled to himself, startling a poor pauper going about his evening stroll.

He slouched deeply on the bench and let his head hang over its back, staring up at the dusky blue and the rich, royal purple, the brightest of the stars already jumping out, begging to be seen. Maybe Ives _didn't_ understand the style of Martin, but it did not mean that Ives was helpless before the man - even if their styles differed so dramatically. Ives had built his bardic reputation using the more subtle weapons of acceptance and forgiveness, a path which, though more difficult, had brought about his greatest triumphs. His head rose slowly as he began to wonder, _could the same methods be used against Martin?_

 _Could he be saved?_ Mostly it was an odd epiphany he'd stumbled on like an errant brick in the pavement. Jarring and a touch infuriating, the odd interplay between Martin and Isabeau had made him wonder. Were the gifts _remorse_? Martin had, after all, given Isabeau truly thoughtful gifts, in his own twisted way: a promotion to Grey Warden, a sword fit for her as no other could be, a piece of jewelry from a beloved mother... In and of themselves, not gifts of which to be ashamed, but when combined with his almost erratic behavior...

He sighed deeply. No matter the answer, it was already decided. He was going to take action. The dice would be thrown to begin a _new_ Game, one of his _own_ choosing.

He straightened again in the bench and reached up to pull his hair out of its queue, fluffing it with his hands so that it hung free and full. He leaned over to tuck his leather breeches neatly into his flare-topped boots, then slid forward on the bench to get his back straight enough to tighten the upper laces of his already close-fitting pants. When that was done he stood, winced, and quickly reached down to ... _adjust_ matters, then pulled wide the laces over his chest. Fortunately he'd worn a fine vest thanks to their planned visit to the Durante estate. It left him suited to the nightlife of Val Royeaux, so he chose the playing field from a wide array.

When the Game finally began, Ives had found his way to a choice arena. It was the outer rings of a public soiree, and a glass of spiced wine rested elegantly in his hand. This was a place both public or private, depending on how the gambit proceeded - a stately party with music flowing alongside the wine, loose lips and secret meetings. He stood, mingled, laughed, and _waited_ \- knowing the shadows still had their eyes on him somehow, somewhere.

As time ticked by, that invitation remained dangling, and Ives began to wonder if perhaps his opponent might decline to appear. Each time a man would approach his senses sharpened, and each time it proved to be a disappointment. What could he say, he was infamous: he should have expected to be sought out by those who wanted to meet Ives Durante, Court Bard extraordinaire before even reaching the age of twenty and rumored to be a former paramour to Celene herself - with the blessing of the Dowager Lady Mantillon, no less. It seemed the legend lived on, even if he hadn't attended to those functions (false as some may have been) since becoming a Grey Warden.

Sometimes the men hinted at a different kind of dance - as did most of the women who approached him that evening - and Ives politely declined. His eyes roved the crowd for only one man; a tall, athletic frame with mismatched eyes. It did help to pass the time, though, and became a little game in and of itself: to chuckle and send another hopeful on their way as they complained how Ives never attended these parties anymore, to give them little more consolation than a gentle kiss to their hand (adorned, almost without fail, with a wedding band,) and a wink to follow them back into the main crowd.

Long after the moon had set, when the party had reached - by Orlesian standards - its most frenzied peak, with the wine flowing most freely and the assignations changing the most frequently, a man wandered through playing a mandolin, delicate fingers trailing over the strings. He was older, judging from the lines around his eyes and mouth, with short, carefully trimmed brown hair shot with grey and a full mustache and spare goatee which matched. The hat on his head, topped with a cockade of lavender feathers, was tipped at a brash angle, the eyepatch completing the overall impression of a gad about town, a man who wanted to be considered daring but not dangerous. There was no specific element Ives could point to that explained why his senses suddenly went on full alert, save that the man was unknown to him, and thus suspect - as the man he had met at the party the night before had been.

Eventually the mandolinist ended up clustered with two women about fifteen feet from Ives, entertaining them with saucy innuendo and blithe promises for later rendezvous before finally coming to a stop by the empty chair next to Ives.

"Ah, women," he observed with a sigh in the thick accents of the Anderfels. He looked at the seated man with a twinkle in his single green eye, the other hidden behind the patch of black silk - a perfect way to disguise a mismatched pair of eyes. "What would life be like without them?"

"Only half of the world's beauty belongs to the fairer sex, friend." Again the internal alarms raised, though going strictly by appearance or voice, with only one single eye to his view, there were no similarities between Martin and this man. It was likely, of course, given the nature of the man's approach, but Ives thought it wasn't clear enough to consider it _definite_. Martin had never resorted to disguising his appearance before, after all - merely his nature. Perhaps pessimism had dug in its talons after such a long time of casting his line - and, of course, he would not put it past a former rival to take advantage of Ives' current situation to sink in some barbs of their own. "It has been a good while, but I swear that I know you. Such a large city can seem so small sometimes..."

The man threw back his head and laughed, causing heads to turn, smile, and ignore them. "Only half!" he said jovially. "Ah, now _you_ are an interesting man. May I?" he asked, gesturing to the empty chair. Without waiting for an answer, he eased down so that the eye without a covering was nearest Ives, his hand idly tuning the strings on his instrument. "Now, it is true that I haven't myself explored the options you seem to hold dear, but I am not averse to _sharing_ , it is true." He looked at Ives, even as a chill went through the bard at the mention of _sharing_ , the same word as from their encounter the night before. "And you? How good are you at sharing?" As if chuckling at a private joke, he continued, "Ah, likely not. I've concluded that Durante men are jealous of their own - even to the point of drawing a blade to defend their honor, no?"

The metre in Ives' head quickly weighed towards _definite_ , any doubt now fully dismissed. Ives let him talk, a grin on his face as he sipped at his wine and offered small, breathy chortles against the rim once in awhile. Inside his head, his thoughts raced as he considered how to handle the man now that he was actually here. All the plans in the world, after all, were useless should the first step prove unsuccessful. _Ah, and now the battle will be well and truly joined._

His guest's fingers continued to caress the neck of his instrument. "Our friendship is an oddity, Ser Durante. Why, it seems like only a few hours since last we met, and yet we have never been formally introduced." He smiled hugely at Ives as he nodded at the passersby who looked at them in curious glances - curiosity being the common pastime of anyone at a party in Val Royeaux - and then immediately dismissed them to return to their own conversations. "So why the enticement, _mein freund_?"

A direct question. Well, it was time to talk. Ives turned his head to give Martin his undivided attention. It might have seemed like nothing at all to say he looked directly and _only_ at Martin, but this was an Orlesian party. Any self-respecting bard would _never_ look away from such a rich tapestry of information to solely focus on a single individual. In one little action, Ives was telling Martin he was the only thing that mattered in this entire party. "I imagine there are others you could be watching, _no_? Yet you've come for me. _To_ me... when I have called. Why dally on what you must know, _mon ami_? I myself have been enticed. You intrigue me. Perhaps it is a bit of the same for each of us? Neither has seen the other undressed, leaving a certain degree of mystery."

Naturally, Ives was not fool enough to think that Martin took the term 'undressed' at face value. He just didn't know _how_ he would take it. This whole Game could unravel, the plan could give way - his heart was thrumming wildly, but he put all his effort into nonchalance.

Martin flashed a smile at him. "You sound so sure in that statement," he observed. "I thought I had disabused of the notion that your Keep is in any way a safe haven. Have I not proven I can move beyond its gates? Explore every nook and cranny within? People are so careless when they think they are safe, and the opportunities... Ah, the opportunities." His fingers smoothed over the mandolin, the melody he evoked one of love and betrayal both.

"Oh? I do wish you would expand on _this_. Tell me, have you seen anything you like?" Ives tittered, his tone holding a degree of playfulness deliberately set to attract the man's _sexual_ attention - even if the decision to do so made Ives uncomfortable. Never, in any of this man's faces that he'd yet seen, had he seen someone attractive. Yes, Martin's face was handsome from the one side, and his appearance well-maintained, but what lay within was so dark and gruesome, Ives couldn't possibly be attracted. Yet here he was, letting his eyes trail from head to toe, slowly - taking every inch, every tuck of fabric, every taut seam into memory - for the sake of a Game whose stakes were to high to allow failure.

"Did you not see my admiration at yonder Durante estates?" Martin asked with a raised eyebrow. "I know you saw the worship I bestowed upon my angel before you went for your blade." Still, the words didn't quite match the direction of Martin's roving eye as it began to move over Ives, though he turned his gaze away before it reached the level of intimacy that had been invited in return. "A reminder for her, as it were, that perhaps a certain bard and his oh-so-innocent twin were getting a bit too close, no?"

Their conversation had come to the first of many dangerous turns. Ives knew the hostile motion would be mentioned, and he also knew Martin wouldn't be easy to pry from Isabeau. This could be the first break in the foundation, and Ives had to do all he could to keep it from falling apart. "To be fair, you did task me with protecting her. You can surely understand the heat of the moment, the rush of concern for a friend? Had I understood the intimate nature of your intended conversation with your angel," despite what he actually thought of such a name for Isabeau from this man, the word was creditably forced from his mouth, "I might have preferred to join you with another blade entirely. Alas... Jean... he is cut from a different cloth than you and I. Few can understand a thrill the same as we can. I think you recognize this, _oui_? Leave this to those who wish to play. It is a rather addictive Game for those with the mettle."

The green eye turned to him again, though it rested only on his face for the moment. Still... it was progress, certainly better than the man looking away. "Ah, so so, but to which Game do you refer, I wonder?" His fingers, which had been resting on the neck of the mandolin, made a gesture familiar to any man who had ever needed to define services to a woman-for-hire when language was a barrier, and for the barest moment, his gaze dropped to ponder the corresponding part of Ives' body before lifting once more, a darting motion that spoke more of accident than design. "Men such as we know oh-so-many of these Games, and I am beginning to wonder to which of the many variations you refer, _mein freund._ And some are rather more addictive than others, no?"

 _Interesting he persists with the disguise, from the speech of the Anderfels to the eyepatch still covering the eye of blue. Why maintain it so long, I wonder?_ Ives let a low chuckle bubble in his chest as he slid a little deeper in his chair, offering Martin a better view through his posture. It wasn't particularly comfortable to slouch so much with his hands behind his back and still look directly at the man, so he turned his upper body to rest his elbow on the table to his side. "I think there's only one I still play these days. Becoming a Warden proved to be a bit of a reprieve, even if some of the side effects have proven a trifle gluttonous. We're not allowed anywhere near politics. A vacation in Orlesian terms, _no?_ Ah, lala, speaking of vacations, have you heard of that gold-skinned Qunari working down at the Scarlet Lotus?" Raising both eyebrows, Ives hoped this this would help solidify the direction of their conversation if he offered enough intrigue. Thankfully, the creature, seven feet in height if he was an inch, with horns and pure golden skin, truly was fascinating to Ives. "I hear that he sings in their stage show and everything. Can you imagine..?" Much as the treatment of the mandolin moments ago, there was no doubt the indication of length he made had little to do with the length of the horns on the Qunari's head.

"I do not have the luxury for such leisure." Again the fingers moved, this time to tighten around the neck of the mandolin for a moment before relaxing and pulling away entirely, instead rising to signal a passing waiter for a drink. His gaze left Ives only to take the glass of wine, and returned to the bard as he took his first sip.

The glass of blush was placed on the table between them, not too distant from where Ives had placed his elbow, and Martin's hand lingered around its stem. "Yet surely you cannot deny the beauty of the female form, _mein freund,_ when it is properly displayed? The pale expanse of the space between a woman's breasts, the smoothness of exposed shoulders, silken hair left to fall about their frame... ah, surely you know of which I speak?" The tone chilled slightly with that hint of warning once more. "I do recall an occasion when you admired a bit too much, and too well."

Isabeau, Isabeau, _Isabeau_. Ives was applying pressure, but the shell simply wouldn't crack. He couldn't have expected it to be _easy,_ but now he worried again that it was impossible. Without affording this nervousness or hesitance time to breathe, Ives chuckled and rolled his eyes, sliding himself back up in his chair. "I think that anyone might be enraptured in such a case. Women, women... it's so... passé. Beauty to be admired, don't confuse me, but so seldom do we get the opportunity to discuss the rippling waves of a perfect abdomen, the sharp, leading crevasse from a straight hip towards a... well, I needn't extrapolate there." His hands, however, gestured once more, and again, direction was no part of it, save perhaps as a self-reference.

With a dreamy sigh, Ives shifted so he could reach with his right hand to the table between them, his fingertips gliding across the table and up the stem of the glass Martin had set there. "Such a closed world we live in where love is not fully explored. Bless the Chantry for allowing us that freedom." It was true he wasn't brave enough to sip from the man's glass now that he had been so near to it, but by simply touching it, he'd bridged a gap, inviting a secondary connection by grasping something Martin had held. "Ah, here again my mind wanders to that poor Qunari. I imagine to join a whorehouse, he must have felt terribly repressed. Poetic rebellion, to be sure, to do something so terribly against one's _apparent nature_." His blue eyes twinkled and he lifted Martin's drink towards him, offering the man a sip of his own wine, a mere _taste_ of the doting affection he could give.

The green eye narrowed, ever so slightly, a hint of crow's feet appearing as he contemplated the offering - and how to respond to it. After a moment, he chose to retrieve the glass with his own hand rather than sip from it while Ives held it, but there was a touch of flesh to flesh, a moment of contact that was matched by an increased intensity in his gaze, and then the glass was taken. The light from nearby lanterns played along some scars on the back of Martin's hand, and for a moment, he stared at them with a peculiar intensity. When it turned to Ives once more, the same focus Ives had seen for but a moment in the nursery this morning had returned.

Martin sipped his wine silently for a moment before musing, "It is true, that many act against their nature and outside their own wishes. Perhaps, in another conversation, the concept of freedom could also be explored, as you wish, when... other matters have been settled." His eye glittered, though what emotion dwelled therein, Ives could not claim to know. "But then, the past is a thing of such terrible beauty, is it not? To lose those you love, to lose your mind at the same time, and be taken from the only thing that ever was important to you? I wonder..." He paused, and Ives held his breath as the man shifted in his chair, but it was only to ease the mandolin into a more secure position. "Your pretty little elf, she of the delectable lips and keen eyes - you fear her loss, _nein?_ The loss of the warm little body, of course, but also the loss of the companion, the friend, the equal, the _knowledge_ that she has of you that no one else shares." He sighed. "And your oh-so-innocent twin, who ventures close to forbidden territory without even being aware of it... He must learn that perhaps he was never known as deeply as he thought he was... or as deeply as he might yet be."

A sip of wine, a swallow of the throat: the bump on his neck danced rather enticingly as it moved up and down. "Blood is difficult to wipe away, my friend. _Very_ difficult. The blood of those you love?" He set his wine glass down, and for the first time it seemed as if the control of the motion were less than absolute. "Ah, but listen to me ramble. I must be boring you so."

"No, no, not at all. Amusing you choose to refer to Artana's body as warm, though. It is sadly much the opposite. Lovers... unique creatures, all of them, and no single one to be less savored than another for their flaws and perfections alike. Lovers. I might have another tonight." He smirked, looking off into the crowd as he continued, a bit relieved that a chink in the other's armor seemed to have been exposed. Now that the crucial moment to dedicate his attention solely to Martin had passed, Ives used his reprieve from the tension of maintaining eye contact to theorize on those around him... and, perchance, to cast another line.

"So strange that people would choose to do what they don't want to. What power could possibly hold something over them? I'm a firm believer we are only as weak as we allow ourselves to be. Only as good as we are strong. It's so much more complicated to do the _right_ thing, isn't it? Anyone can convince themselves it's easier, I suppose, to just steal that one coin or just say that one lie... but only the valiant suffer the hunger or take the arrow. Only the brave know the true nuances of a martyr. Reminds me of a story... Another time perhaps." He let his voice trail off, a deliberate tease, a hint and a promise for _next time,_ and then changed topics once more. "Ah, but I love this country. I'd do so very much for Her, but I would always do what was in my power to be sure it aligned with my heart."

The glass was set once more between them, and Martin's long fingers moved over his mandolin, his eye shifting focus to something in the distance. Faintly, Ives could make out the melody of a lullaby. An odd choice... He broke from his consideration of the music when Martin murmured, "Strength is not always obvious." For a moment his eye closed as his head leaned back. "And suffering is not solely in the realm of the valiant."

"I think that depends on your definition of valiant. It needn't describe the man who stands before a lion. Everything in life is in the scope of the beholder. We are all but looking out between the bars of a cage, and all hold so little control. I am fortunate enough that at least I can walk with my cage. How nice it would be to taste freedom." A deep breath slipped in a gentle sigh that paired with a turning of his head, a move calculated to evoke an emotion not truly felt. It was time again for eye contact, and Ives gave Martin the most charming smile he could muster. "You know ... lions, cages, a handsome man... Have you ever danced _the Caged Lion_?"

A movement at the corner of his eyes caught Ives' attention: the tightening of fingers around a glass stem. _The seed is well planted, then._ It was also a good sign that when he had turned to Martin, he had found the eye on him already, as if waiting for another glance between them - a hint, perhaps, of a waking fascination? Martin abandoned his glass and brought his hand back to the mandolin, touching the strings without evoking a sound. "You speak of cages in both life and music in but two breaths? Ah, you are an intriguing man, Ives Durante."

For a moment, those words hung between them, and then Martin looked away, sitting up straighter in his chair as he chuckled. "Ah, so so, I have danced it many a time, my friend. Your fellow Warden, Riordan, as I recall, was a master of it. Still, I hardly think it would be a kind thing to expose an audience to either of our _marks_ , as it were, _da?"_ His hands shifted over the mandolin, and again the light moved across the scars resting there, three parallel lines that spoke of purpose rather than an accident. Martin's gaze dropped to contemplate the scars, and for a moment, he froze.

Ives again bated his breath, wondering what was moving through the man's mind, and whether or not it would ruin his chances to redirect Martin's obsession.

With a movement so sudden it almost made Ives startle, Martin turned to look at Ives, the green eye wide and, somehow, _awake_ in a way Ives had not seen before. When he spoke, there was no hint of an accent - not the Anders one he had played all evening nor the Orlesian lilt Ives had heard in every other conversation with the man. "I have been devoted to her for so long... I do what must be done for her alone."

Abruptly he stood and stepped away from Ives, halting only when a blond-haired server danced in front of him with a quick apology, but Martin did not move forward again once the interruption had passed. The hand not wrapped around the mandolin's neck flexed and relaxed a few times. When he turned back to Ives, the uncertainty was gone, replaced by the same arrogance as before and a voice heavy with an Anders accent - but with an intense focus that Ives felt weigh oppressively on his shoulders. "You wish to dance, my friend?"

Though his heart was still pounding, more now than at first since the line had come so close to snapping, Ives pushed himself from the chair. The words without an accent, the ... _something_ in that green eye, Ives didn't know what it all meant, but he knew he had somehow made it to the final, crucial stage of his plan. Unfortunately, that stage had turned into something he wasn't sure he could do. Any bard who played high stakes in the Game knew several dances meant to tout skill without words, but he had made the mistake - or perhaps, luckily chosen the proper gambit - of selecting the most difficult of them all. He was a pawn, small and purest white, standing against a black rook. His only glimmer of hope was that the rook had some uncertainty yet to cling to.

Setting his own arrogant posturing into play, Ives began to work at the buttons of his vest. "I've certainly nothing to hide, _ami_. What is a scar but a story? Will you show me yours?" As he shucked the fabric their isolation drew to an end, several of the surrounding women intrigued by a disrobing Durante.

Yet still Ives watched Martin instead as the man smiled, teeth glinting in the lamplight. "Another challenge, my friend?" he asked as his hand reached up to remove his eyepatch, revealing the dark blue of midnight. "You pique my interest ever more." Quickly removing his hat with its feathered cockade and dropping it to the side, he began unlacing his shirt cuffs and the elaborate ruffle at his neck. As he watched his opponent divest himself of his own shirt, he pulled off his tunic and worked at the ties of the thin shirt beneath, his mismatched eyes never leaving the bard.

"Oh, but of course I do." Ives chuckled as he spoke, a different brand of confidence within his words now that the plan seemed solid. Martin was almost in his grasp, but the dance still loomed. If only a playful wink such as the one he'd just given would solve all his problems. Of course, he was now standing with the rakes of a Shriek down his front for all to see, and his companion _was_ disrobing. Not everyone took so well to that. In their gathering audience, a woman near them gasped.

Not daring to risk any further interruption, Ives turned to handle it himself. "Ah, do not worry, my fair Madame! We have a very specific reason to do such a thing, and it will be to your delight! Maestro!" Turning his head to shout over the din to the chamber orchestra next to the dancing stage, somehow Ives' voice had managed to command the attention of most of the party. He did learn some beneficial tricks in the life of a bard; a sing-song tone was a powerful thing indeed, and not just the mark of a rather frivolous fellow. "I think that this appearance after so long away merits something fantastically special. For the return of Ives Durante, I shall face a challenger. As we take the stage, please play _The Caged Lion!_ A treat for all who attend!" Ives looked behind him again to Martin, just to be sure he intended to follow, then bounded with impressive energy up onto the stage. To welcome him up and effectively close his escape with another challenge, Ives gestured extravagantly to his scarred ... acquaintance, and did his best to not linger too much on the 'stories' he had to tell.

Some things were best taken in small doses. "My opponent!"

Martin, apparently unwilling to be upstaged, leapt onto the stage with an equal amount of showmanship and bowed with a flourish, the light gleaming off a patchwork of purple and crosshatched scars on his back and front. "Gustaf Wulfrum, at your service, _Herr Durante._ And now, the music, if you please!"

"Liar, liar," Ives cooed through his teeth without the slightest wibble in his lips, locked as they were in a wide grin. His only reply was a wink from that midnight blue eye while they moved to their starting positions. As the long introduction to the dance burst forth from the chamber orchestra - a hint of what lay in store for the audience - both opponents rounded each other as much for preparation and loosening of the limbs as for display. If either of them had flaws in this dance, someone would undoubtedly take a blow for the mistake. It was tense, fiery, and required the utmost precision.

The notes changed abruptly, both bards snapping expertly into the first position. They spun towards and past each other, landing back on one foot just as their back heels crossed, Ives taking the first jump of the dance. From there, the tempo did not let up. It was as rigorous as a fight, as precise as a training routine. There were spins, widely flung arms, high kicks of the legs. They jumped and fell and spun several times more, their hands touching the ground nearly as often as their feet.

All the while Ives kept eye contact, his baby blues intense, his willing sacrifice in mind. He _could_ get Isabeau a reprieve. He knew it. And he could handle it. The crowd was completely mesmerized, but Ives had his attention only on his target, inwardly aware of the oddity of the position in which he found himself: attracting someone's exclusive attention for a purpose other than sex. As he pulsed through the movements for the dance, the irony that he was essentially _promising_ exactly that also did not escape him... but truth and lies were but convenient weapons in the Game, and this game involved life and death.

Martin whirled around Ives, smiling broadly as the dance continued, his hands progressing through the graceful forms of the _Caged Lion_ as if it were second nature. His face, hidden behind the makeup of his disguise, was difficult to read due to the demands of the dance, so Ives finally, if a touch uneasily, turned his attention to the body. The scars told far more than most would be able to read: marks left by blade were covered with burns, long slashes were punctuated with scars left from round implements. Ives saw round scars as well, at various places on his lean but strong torso, indentations that were too regularly placed and too well-healed to be accidental, and a small part of his mind wondered who had left them. He had to force his mind to evaluate stance rather than scars, and watched for a shift, an indication that his desperate gambit, prompted by instinct more than logic, was correct.

 _This would be another particularly opportune moment to let my plan work, if we are still erring on the side of your existence, Maker._ As the sting of sweat in his eyes caused him to blink and beg a different sort of prayer in those next moments, Ives took some solace in the fact that god or no, the _Caged Lion_ had a magic all of its own. As a bard in his own right, he could exert himself to take command of it - and he did so now, using his body and his gaze as his instruments, riding the notes and the unwitting current of power they gave him and turning it towards his goal: fixating Martin's dangerous intensity upon Ives Durante, and no other.

In Orlais, the _Caged Lion_ was generally danced in three unspoken paths: that of hatred, that of elegance, and that of attraction. In the beginning of the dance, the ripple of Martin's jaw, the set of his arms, and the lines of the muscles on his back indicated that for him, at least, this dance reflected an inner conflict: the jealousy and anger which had drawn him here tonight warring with the seeds of the attraction Ives had so deftly planted. Yet the dance called for light touches, for glancing blows, for extended eye contact; all opportunities for Ives to communicate with Martin in ways that words simply could not convey - and for the tight coil of magic the bard had woven to settle into the man as well. As the dance lengthened and more sweat formed on their torsos and faces, Martin's movements became subtly _different_ , and slowly he shifted from the first path of hatred to the third path of attraction and its close twin, _lust_. The touches between them became ever more frequent, ever more lingering, and ever more _firm._ Instead of merely gliding by as they crossed the dance floor, Ives ensured buttocks touched, biceps grazed each other, and fingers steadied as much as opportunity allowed.

All of his work culminated in this one dance. All of the weeks since he'd learned of Martin, of the blight he had inflicted for so many years upon someone so undeserving, and the scope of those he was willing to hurt in his Game. As their eyes locked yet again, Ives silently implored, _Make_ me _your obsession._

The music, already accelerating as the dancers whirled toward the finale, abruptly hit a long, poignant note that lingered, a moment placed in the music by design to give the prancing Lions a chance to breathe before the final rush to the end. In that moment, it appeared as if someone had indeed listened to the silent pleas of the bard. Ives saw it all fall into place behind those mismatched eyes. The arrogance didn't diminish one whit - if anything, it increased as the smile broadened with a hunger that had been absent before - but now, Martin's focus was on Ives. No longer was the bard an annoyance, a curiosity, or a protector by proxy for his angel. Instead, Ives had _become_ the target, earning an errant shadow and all the attention that Isabeau had suffered under. The weight of his attention would now fall upon the shoulders of a willing martyr.

If he'd had the _time_ to be relieved, Ives might have shown it. Sadly, or perhaps thankfully, the last stretch of the song was the most punishing of them all, so such a risky slip of emotion wasn't even possible. When the last note finally hit, high and long and haunting, both men snapped into their final pose, sweat dripping from their bodies and chests heaving as the roaring applause fell on already deaf ears. There was just the last note, lingering as tangibly between them as the connection between their eyes.

The smirk stretched to a grin as Ives turned his attention to the crowd, the job of a bard never done. He took his bow, then gestured to Martin, holding his hand high. Another act for the crowd, and a wedge forcing distance between them when Martin clearly desired something else entirely. That realization was something, at least. Words could scarcely be heard between them just then, so they didn't matter... not until after they returned to their table to fetch their clothes, both hearts now pounding as Ives' had most of the night.

Martin carefully pulled his undershirt over his head, careless of the sweat. "Ah, my friend, you certainly have a way of making me reveal that which I would admit to no one else." His eyes twinkled. "In fact, I am of a mind to reward you for reminding me that sometimes, lies are very _inconvenient_ little things."

WIthout any further warning, he reached out and grasped the waistline of Ives' pants, shoving him up against the nearest wall and closing in for a kiss every bit as thorough as the one that had been forced upon Isabeau that morning in the Durante estate - almost as if he were gauging how Ives would respond. Tongue dipping and weaving, Martin pressed against the bard full length, careless of the sweat and raucous calls behind them. Finally he relinquished Ives and pulled back. "Ah, but then every naughty little Durante deserves some _impressionable_ kisses once in awhile, _nein?"_

Ives could say he'd had worse. The kiss, actually, was fine. He was fairly aroused from the dance, after all. Even if the person he'd been dancing with wasn't acceptably attractive, if the dance went the route of _attraction_ , the touches inherent to the already blood-pumping routine easily led to those reactions in a healthy man's body. Judging from what he felt as Martin ground his hips forward, the same physical reaction had claimed him as well, leaving Ives both fascinated and repulsed, but unable to show the latter in his reaction.

He needed to mask the hesitation where words couldn't find their way to his tongue, so Ives leaned forward and caught up the lips before him again, allowing his body to simply do as it pleased. In this test, Martin would surely only respond to a natural arousal, and such a dangerous opponent would easily detect anything less. His hands latched, his heel dug in and his thigh pressed forward, pulling the man close enough that their contact (and the ambient giggles and catcalls) doubled. With his eyes closed he could imagine another in his grasp, a muscular warrior more to his liking, altruistic as he was beautiful - perhaps the man mentioned earlier, the courageous and selfless Riordan, a man handsome inside and out. The thought was enough, and Ives let a soft, low groan follow the surge that caused his hips to roll forward.

"Don't I deserve more than just kisses?" Inspiration had struck, and Ives was able to open his eyes and face those mismatched ones without fear of losing the 'character.' "Earlier _someone_ threw around the word lover, mnh?"

Ignoring the whistles and catcalls, Martin brought his hand up to rest on Ives' cheek. His thumb rubbed gently along the bard's lower lip, feather-light and surprisingly erotic. His odd eyes, however, didn't waver as he looked deep into the baby blues across from him. For a moment they widened, and for some reason, Ives felt himself drawn to look at the green eye exclusively in the moment before Martin closed them both and brought his lips in for another kiss.

It was entirely unlike the first one, which had been hungry and demanding: a staking of territory, the claim of a man accustomed to dominance. This kiss... well, it was almost a lover's caress: slow, sensual, and soft, and without the overwhelming sense of authority that the first kiss had been. Martin's hand worked into the bard's silken, thick hair and pulled him a bit closer, but it was a gentle moment - and completely unlike anything that had come before.

The difference was jarring. Ives gasped, caught up in how to even process such a stark change, and knew that the way Martin's eyes had just widened would remain burned into his mind forever. Maybe ... there _was_ something more to him. _Maybe..._

Though he had thought nothing of it at first, another hand danced up during the distraction of the kiss. It seemed he was going to join the previous in massaging his scalp. It thus was a great surprise when a short, sharp pain suddenly pricked at his neck, instead. By the time Ives tried to speak against Martin's lips, he'd already lost the capacity to form any words. An insouciant whisper echoed in his ear as the world began to swim. _"Forgive me the monstrous headache with which you shall awaken,_ mon ami _. However, we should prepare for our travels,_ no?"

Perhaps the world going black was actually one of the more convenient things that could have happened in this situation.


	9. Dubious Victory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having learned not nearly enough about his opponent, Ives prepares himself to leave Val Royauex burdened by more questions than answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to our fantastic beta readers, Mille Libri and ShebasDawn!

 

 

* * *

He had won.

As Ives' eyes jumped open to searing midday light and the ringing of the noontime bells, that was the first thought that filtered through his groggy mind. The next, in very short order, were the muscle impulses to reach up and grab his head, and make a guttural sound that appropriately described the pain he now felt, respectively. The natural progression was for him to stay curled like that, his arms shielding his eyes from the light and his hands raking into his hair, wet with cold sweat that had undoubtedly come from his dreams.

Dreams... Were they dreams, or memories? They had felt so real, down to the feel of burning muscles and the straining for breath resulting from the exertion of the dance. And then, after... it was hard to make sense of what came after the dance. The kisses... he remembered three, very clearly, and the last had given him so many questions. There was a look in Martin's eyes he'd never seen before, and it was so  _hopeful_  that Ives' more pessimistic side preferred to assume it had never really happened.  _Then again..._  the sting of that pinprick was rather real, and his neck still hurt from it. Not so badly as his head, though.

More than the throbbing, Ives hated that he had  _won,_  yet he still hadn't learned that much at all. There had been breakthroughs, but...  _Never_  before had he been given so very much, yet walked away knowing so little. Artana would be livid that he was going to have to divide his attention, too. He sighed heavily and let his hands slide down his face, then neck, and along the topmost scar on his chest, blinking away the last of the sleep in his eyes.

A few seconds later, Ives realized something was amiss. Shock did a healthy amount towards waking him all the way, and Ives threw off his sheet.

He wore only as much as the day he was born.

Ives racked his brain as his heart began to race, eyes widening slightly. He had most  _certainly_  gotten his shirt on after the dance at the _very_  least, and he'd  _never_  removed his trousers. It was true he was somewhat concerned about what  _sexual_ activities may have happened without his consent, but he'd have to admit he  _expected_  something like that.  _Did_ they have sex? Surely the bed would be ... mustier if that was the case, but then, Martin clearly liked to  _fix_  imperfections. After he turned the matter over and over in his mind to try and glean information from the blackness of his unconsciousness, he finally shrugged at the futility of fretting over an outcome in which he'd been prepared to engage.  _Though I would have at least preferred to have_ chosen _it, ah, lala... He is dangerous, a man in a world of his own rules and making, and the strength to support the grandeur._

As he shifted, the glint of fabric to the left of him caught his attention. Where Jean would have lain in the next bed (were he not in such need of comfort and cleaving to Artana) instead sat a neatly folded stack of clothes and likewise arranged items: Isabeau's box, a coiled note with a wax stamp of a castle silhouetted against a moon, and a small, familiar book. His blades were gone, and worse, his heirloom flute. That panicked him again, and he turned frantically to see if it could be located. On his bedstand, near a glass of water he was incredibly wary of, sat a new flute case - presumably with his flute still within. The old case, open and empty, was sitting in the wastebin near the writing desk: he could see it from where he sat. This was his room, but it was hard to say it felt like home with so many intrusions.  _Life for Isabeau must have felt so every day._

Drawing in a breath, Ives reached for the note and broke the seal, unfurling it carefully, as if it might bite.

" _I will forgive the theft of my angel's gift,"_  he murmured as he read, glancing to the little box he'd yet to quell his curiosity over, then continued,  _"but insist on giving you one of your own._  ... One of your own."  _The prayer book_? Ives put the note down and reached for it. It didn't take long at all to realize it was Cateline's book, complete with the dusky blue ribbon that had been her first favor to Jean - and, thus, belonged to his brother.  _How could I have forgotten_? This was hopeful, though Ives couldn't say it was compassion for Jean on Martin's part - just consideration for what Ives might like. There was an underlying compassion in  _that_ , though, and for a moment he stared at the ceiling, thinking again of those eyes.

With a great, melodramatic sigh, Ives flopped back onto the bed again and simply lay still awhile, turning over all of the same thoughts. In time the matter of Isabeau's 'gift' came to mind again, and so he picked up that box and held it before him, carefully lifting the cover. Inside lay an amulet, strikingly similar to the one that Livilla wore, save that the shape of the paw imprinted upon it was different. He furrowed his brow. He was no tracker or ranger, and thus did not know which animal each imprint represented. After a moment's hesitation, he laid a finger on the leather cord from which it hung, and a warning growl echoed in his head.

Faster than thought, he snapped the lid back onto the box and dropped it a safe distance away on the bed.  _Better to ask an expert,_  he decided, rubbing the faint scars on his neck as the memory of their birth echoed in his head.

That just left his flute, and he wasn't as certain about just picking that one up and carrying on as though it hadn't been handled by a murderer. A powder in the shaft, poison on the mouthpiece, some manner of trigger that would explode in a fiery, runic explosion...  _The last we can at least presume is an overactive imagination, non?_

After a few moments of this little imaginative back and forth, he retrieved the flute case and put it on the bed, gave it a little shake before setting it on the blanket, then turned it over to examine it more closely. The new case  _was_  lovely, tailored to the flute almost to a disturbing degree - a detail which made him wonder about the nature and length of Martin's observance of him and his twin. A fine filigree of silver outlined the Durante crest across the front, while a smaller inset box of gold displayed the griffon of the Grey Warden on the back.

All in all, this was an item that spoke of the same twisted care Martin had shown in selecting Isabeau's presents: custom made and suited precisely to the recipient. His eyes moved to the discarded flute case, and he frowned slightly. "Yet you displace what was in our lives before, to make yourself a part of it." He glanced at the odd amulet that had been given to Isabeau, unsure how that fit into the overall scheme of things, then shrugged and returned his attention to the case before him.

"Ah, lala, my enigma, what dreadful surprise shall I find inside?" He could only pray it was just the case that was replaced, and not the flute as well. Finally he braced himself and opened the case slowly, revealing the secrets within.

His flute - a bit old, a bit weathered, and as dear as an old friend - lay nestled within a beautiful inner lining of dark gold velvet. On top of the flute, however, was a folded piece of paper with only his name written gracefully on it. A reluctant smile came to his lips. "As if any other would find it first." Still cautious, he retrieved the paper and opened it, curious how this note would differ from the other one.

Inside he found no words, only a drawing. His eyebrows rose and he remained silent as he saw a most unexpected subject - himself - lying in bed, naked but with a blanket drawn up over his hips. The salient anatomy was hidden tastefully enough to call the detailed shading and hatches fine art... except for one little detail. The suggestion of something beneath the blanket of which any man would be proud did make him chuckle, and he peeked below for a comparison reference. While both humorous and accurate a rendition, it was the depiction of his own face that arrested his attention. "Surely no one is that... perfect," he murmured. "Ah, and I thought we were past that age in the arts. But then, if he were mired in reality, I think we wouldn't have the troubles we do."

Ives folded the paper and put it back into the flute case, though he slid it underneath the velvet insert so that it would be secure for times to come. What a night - what a  _morning_. He had an entirely new set of worries now beyond attracting the undivided attention of a sociopath who might very well prefer him to be some kind of unliving flesh golem than a person - obviously, said sociopath was  _complex_. Ives only found solace in the fact that his hindquarters weren't sore when he stood. Coupled with the drawing, he even had sneaking suspicions he had been left alone last night. ... Relatively speaking of course.

Raking a hand back through his hair, Ives meandered to his dresser, pulled out a set of clothing that (unlike the one sitting on Jean's bed) he wasn't somewhat wary of, and looked out the window. "I hope that you think me idyllic come our next meeting. Else I might not protect Isabeau long after all."

A bath was in order and a night's worth of errands neglected. Staring aimlessly at the view wouldn't do today, so he slid on his pants (the minimum requirement for walking through the Keep whilst sober) and headed down to the basement to cleanse away some of the stress.

In the lazy hours that passed he was reminded that they would need transportation for the upcoming journey that he had almost forgotten about. It would have been nice to have a nice, relaxing vacation after such an extreme ordeal, but that truly would have been too easy. At least he knew where to secure said transportation with relative ease - and knew precisely who to ask to be his accomplice in acquiring it.

.~^~.

" _Chèrie."_  It was a much changed Ives who called from the fence surrounding one of the training partitions: one who was dried and dressed and smelling of lavender from his exorbitantly priced scented soap. Though there were three trainees within the ring, it stood to reason that he was speaking to Isabeau - unless he made a habit of calling a surly-looking, scarred man who was no doubt a cold blooded murderer or a scrappy elven mage also of the male persuasion by the feminine diminutive  _chérie_. "Can I steal you away?"

"Of course, lout," Isabeau said, stepping back and lowering her sword and shield before heading to Ives. The sword was smoothly returned to its sheath and the targe slung over her arm as she walked to him, followed by a cursory mopping at the sweat on her brow with a cloth. When she reached the fence, she grabbed one of the pitchers of water that was readily available throughout the practice area. "What do you want?"

Ives was distracted a moment by the evil look directed at him by the scarred man - presumably for taking Isabeau away - and only belatedly did he focus on Isabeau, after she'd begun to drink. "Making friends, I see. Ah,  _oui,_ I was wondering if you'd enjoy a little trip. Are you fond of horses? No tricks or puns," he assured her, "I'm merely inviting you to the stables. Ah, lala, and that is no entendre, either."

She lowered the pitcher, but her eyes didn't rise to meet his. "I... I do like horses.  _Pére_ had some horses." Her mouth twisted slightly, and she leaned over and put the pitcher down. "You won't need to teach me how to ride, but Livilla... She'll need a mount for the journey, but she's never ridden on horseback. We took a carriage most of our way from Montfort." Rubbing her hands against her trousers to wipe off most of the sweat, she quickly exited the training area and tucked her cloth into her belt. "Perhaps we could stop by my room first so I could freshen up? I'd prefer not to go anywhere near the Durante Estate looking like this, even if we are just going to the stables."

"As you wish, though I think you look as stunning as a rose, if perhaps you don't smell quite so fresh as one at this precise moment." He chuckled, hoping the mood would be contagious. Considering the night he had endured, his hopes were high to put as much negativity behind him as he could. "After you."

Though he did dance ahead enough to open doors for her despite her protests, their conversation on the way to her room was light and insignificant. The question of why precisely she was avoiding his eyes didn't come up just yet, though he did flip it round and round in his head as he waited outside her room for her to dress.

When she came out, her hair was tidied and braided, and she wore a tasteful dress of light blue samite. It was a riding dress, though, with a split skirt to allow mounting and unmounting of horses, and a pair of leather gloves were tucked into her waistband. "There. I think I'm ready to try some horses out. Hopefully the stables has mounts for people who are..." Her eyes glanced up to the top of his head before she looked away. "Less gifted with height than you. Livilla could ride a tall horse, but I might need you or Jean to give me a hand up if you don't have something a trifle shorter."

"We will see what can be done," Ives said with a chortle.

She'd been to the estate once before now, so this time the walk was something both of them could spend a little more time enjoying. Ives told her little stories as they went to fill the occasional silence, her continued dodges of eye contact avoided in the interest of ease.

"I've seen this property more times in three days than I had in two months. I'm torn as to whether it's a good thing or not. Ah, lala... This way, the stables are around back. Jean and I stable our horses here. Artana's mare Assan sometimes stays here, depending on the needs of the Wardens." His own little dappled stallion, Carrot, would be very pleased to meet the visitor to the stables, though Jean's Ebony could be a trifle standoffish to visitors. "There's ... been additions to the stables at the Keep thanks to Assan ... 'meeting' Carrot. The brilliantly creative name belongs to my stallion, of course. Her mare is named for what I've come to understand is the Dalish word for 'Arrow.' She certainly is fast." With the crunch of gravel beneath their feet on the drive and sweeping gestures to keep his words a little more interesting, they were happily able to completely ignore the barking of the grounds dogs and, no doubt, the barking of the resident mutt up in his study.

"I'm a bit surprised that... Bernard," the hesitation was obvious, even if the reason for it was not, "lets you keep such expensive animals here. I assume you have to pay for their housing, but why let you keep them here in the first place? For the children? Jennine would have to learn to ride if she wishes to achieve the rank of Chevalier, much less go farther."

"Ah, very astute,  _mon floraison_ , though I wonder how difficult a stretch it was to imagine Bernard was doing all within his power to rob us every sovereign he could. In fact yes, the children do often use Carrot, and both he and Jean's fine stallion from his station as a Chevalier are frequently used for breeding stock. Despite that we pay all the same, and honestly, I can't truly imagine Carrot terribly minds the existence." Once they reached the stable doors Ives once again held it aside for her, the eight stalls each filled with a fine specimen. "The rather plain, if lovely, fawn is Assan, the black one there is Jean's Ebony. As you can tell, we share a similar talent for naming, my brother and I. Ah, lala, and this charming rose dapple stud is my Carrot. I'm sure you can imagine what his favorite food is."

A smile did creep onto Isabeau's face at that comment, and for the first time she looked at him, as if to verify whether or not he had a grin on his face. "All right, I'll bite. Carrots?"

Naturally, as the bait was taken and she was so terribly curious about his face, he kept it as straight and bland as possible. As though he were a man who had heard that a thousand times if he'd heard it once, Ives simply announced in his most under-spiced tone, "Apples."

She reached out and bumped his upper arm with her fist, unable to stop her chuckle. "Lout. Stop playing us like lutes."

The laughter was contagious, so it bubbled from him, too, as he reached out to give a little push back. "You know, sometimes I think Orlesians forget the original meaning of the word  _game_ , hm? Ahh, but fine, I confess, Carrot adores his namesake. Isn't that right, my handsome, whorish little man?" Abandoning his hawkish scrutinizing of her face now that he'd seen a smile upon it, he retreated to lightly grasp his much beloved Nevarran breed's muzzle and rub his forehead against the long, flat expanse of his nose. "Who missed their daddy, hmm?"

"You're even more adventurous than I thought if  _that_  is true," she murmured. Ives caught a hint of her lingering smile as she reached up and stroked the neck of the tall black horse. As her fingers dug under his mane, the horse leaned into her hand eagerly. She smiled sadly and set her head against his, so her next words were muffled a bit. "How is your brother?"

"Oh, fine and well enough. He spent the night with Artana, so I'm sure he's worked out some frustrations,  _non?"_  Another short chuckle sounded, though it was less at his brother's expense and more out of jaded wonder if he'd had the same sort of end to his evening without even knowing it. "I imagine  _that man_  will be bothering us less from here on out. Jean will wind down eventually. Out of sight, out of mind, it is always said. By whom, a mystery, I am sure. I know more idioms than there are idiots and can't accredit a one to anyone. Ah, what is a bard to do!"

Her head lifted and jerked around when he mentioned  _that man_ , and her eyes narrowed as she looked at him. "Why do you say that? He didn't... I-" Ebony shook his head and nudged forward again, forcing her attention back onto scratching his forehead until his eyes once again were heavy-lidded with pleasure. "He won't give up." The weariness in her voice was enough to pull sympathy from Ives, and to draw him away from Carrot to bring attention where it was needed most. The horse wouldn't die of another five minutes by himself.

"I just have my suspicions he'll be busy with another, is all,  _chèrie_. Besides, we will be on the road come morning. That will have to slow him down, at least a little. Why, not a single person I know can be in two places at once, don't you agree? He clearly has far too much meddling to do in Orlais to completely abandon it to tail a band of Grey Wardens." The sympathy he felt manifested in a soft smile as he rested a hand gently on her shoulder, squeezing it just so to remind her that he was  _here,_ and more importantly, Martin was not.

A heartfelt sigh escaped her as she leaned into him. "I admit, I'm looking forward to leaving Val Royeaux. He's never followed me into the countryside, though I haven't been in them much beyond simple travel. I'm still surprised how quickly he found us when we came here. How he found out where we were going..." Her voice trailed off, and her hand fell away from Ebony as her arms crossed her body in a close self-embrace. "I still wouldn't wish him on anyone else, though. He seemed obsessed with Livilla until she marked him, and then I started getting more presents than ever for a while." She looked up at him, and he saw her tiredness in the smudges under her eyes and the hollowness of her cheeks. "At least once we go, he won't have a reason to target the children. He's... very good with children, when he needs to be."

Ives was silent for a good few moments more than was awkward, but in the light of the emotion lingering in the air, it didn't read that way. His fingertips brushed one of her hollow cheeks and slid to her chin, tilting it up just so that the light would hit it in a way to hide the pallor of exhaustion. He smiled more intently, more contagiously, and brushed along her chin as he pulled back his hand. "Well... I wouldn't wish him on you. Come, we've got to pick you a horse yet, and whisk it away before Bernard becomes more the wiser."

Her smile grew in response to his, but her hand waved in the air as she straightened into a more ladylike posture. "He's not very difficult to bribe, I've noticed. I possess far more valuable items than Montfort Red, if it comes to that." Ives marvelled at how she didn't even seem to notice the motion herself when her arm slipped neatly alongside his, hooking to tangle them in a very friendly posturing. As her eyes examined each new horse, she said softly, "I just wish there was something I could give Jean to make the smile return to his eyes."

Though Ives moved smoothly along with her through the stables which he had every intention to larcon, inside he had been given considerable pause. It wasn't anything he was going to comment on, but the simple fact she'd even noticed that about his brother was a hopeful little glimmer for him. Good friends could become more, after all. Maybe even distractions from a shared suitor. "Ah, well, I can dream," he muttered off-hand, sighing dramatically as Isabeau slowed to a halt before the horse in the last stall on the left. "This one caught your eye, has it?"

Isabeau nodded thoughtfully. "Fourteen hands is usually what I prefer. Is she thirteen or fourteen tall?" Releasing Ives' elbow, she stepped forward and held out her hand, clucking her tongue softly to make the horse come to her. With an experienced hand she reached up and began to scratch the horse's neck, her face softening as the mare wickered softly and nuzzled at her hair. "Oh, she's got a lovely personality, too. What is her name?"

"Oh, knowing Bernard, probably Stock Mare Sixteen. That burden can be all yours, as the theft shall be all mine. There's her saddle there. It won't be fitted to you, of course, but at least it's fitted to her. Make sure you steal away every accoutrement you see - my next return is going to be a colorful one once Bernard discovers the empty stalls later." He winked at her before backing away. "Ebony takes a particularly dreadful amount of time to dress. Hopefully Jean won't be expecting the full heraldry. At least Artana rides bareback. One less saddle to orient."

"Hmmm." Isabeau tapped her chin thoughtfully. "Then let's pick out a horse for Livilla while we can." She moved her hand back to the horse which still sniffed at her and patted her gently. "And I think you shall be Rhea, after Mama's horse." With a final rub, she let go of the horse and headed back to another stall where a tall, lanky mare of a nondescript greyish brown had stuck her head over the stall door and was watching them carefully. "How's the gait on that one? Livilla will need one gentle enough to compensate for the fact she's never ridden before."

Ives really had no defense for the way he giggled, but the opportunity in those words was just far too much for him to ignore. "Hasn't she?" he asked with perfect innocence. "Well, I don't  _think_  it would be too much for her to handle. She seems a formidable woman. I trust she'd even enjoy it. Quite a bit of power between her legs... and of course, as is often the case with a well-trained stallion, she'd have the run of him for it."

"That is clearly a  _mare_ , you lout!" She stamped her foot, possibly to offset the smile that was vying for attention on her mouth with a frown. The frown won out, finally, as she looked at the mare. "And... and she really wouldn't like you to talk about her like that."

Ah, as soon as he had begun to chuckle, there was the sting that could take it away. His good mood suffered under such fire, Livilla's comparing his compliments to Martin's fresh on his mind. The oddity of a lesson on the matter of appropriateness coming from a source other than his brother only compounded it. "I find it a sin that she cannot enjoy herself. All those who would shun her or try to make her suffer more... They deserve that treatment, not Livilla. I trust there's a part of her within that would quite enjoy banter like this,  _non?_  Yet here we stand, wondering how her head would hang or her heart would ache. Livilla is a charming woman. How unfortunate her outside does not match within. The world is too unkind a place to see it."

Isabeau bit her lip and looked away, back to the mare she'd spotted earlier. Her response was not immediate, either, as she went to the horse and began to introduce herself. Finally, after the animal's curiosity had been answered to a degree, she said quietly, "When we were young, she was more... lighthearted, it is true. The world has not been kind, but in this case... she may blame Martin, but it is more than that." Her dark blue eyes landed on Ives. "The only man she has taken to her bed was blind - a Warden veteran who enjoyed the sound of her laugh. His Calling came the year after." Her hand patted the mare without thought as she frowned. "In this case, it is also more than just a matter of 'enjoying herself.' It's because it is-" The horse interrupted her, nudging her forcefully for more attention. Isabeau complied, falling silent as she scratched at the horse's neck with more vigor than before. Clearly the horse was no ally of  _his_.

He stepped forward a half step, a frown on his own lips. She kept her eyes turned away from him with good reason, knowing how much he could search for in them. At this point he couldn't hope to finish her sentence for her, even despite all of his experience with the world's less-than-endless variances in human beings. Isabeau had always proven to be among the least predictable he'd ever met, though. "No doubt that fortune is unearned. But ... I cannot hear words unspoken. What more a matter is it?" It had been surprising (at the least) to hear Livilla's confession that day, but knowing as little as he did about her so far had been a bit of a frustration for him for weeks now. It was another crusade he yearned to embark upon, but with Martin such a challenge as he was, even Ives had to wonder if he had the  _capacity_.

Isabeau sighed. "That is for Livilla to tell." She stroked the horse one final time, then turned to Ives. "So, shall we take these two now? How did you want to handle the acquisition?"

With little hope to persuade this discerning warrior, Ives put his attention to what he  _could_  manage. "Ah, the horses... Yes, well, I intended to saddle the four, bridle Assan, and then tie the three bridles to the two we ride. That ride I intended to be a calm canter out of the estate. It should be simple. Well, until Bernard realizes that we've taken more than our own." Clearly not too concerned about  _that_ , Ives chuckled again, trying to reintroduce the good mood. "Let me worry about that, though. What is the worst he could possibly do?"

"While we are gone? Not much, considering Jennine is more than his match." She smiled at him. "I can't imagine he would be able to budge the children's opinion of Jean, after all, and so there will be time for his anger to fade back to its customary level of nominal apoplexy." She shook her head, then looked around. "So, time to start saddling?"

"Mm, no thank you. I think we'll use them on the horses instead," Ives said, smirking even as Isabeau glared at him.

.~^~.

A few hours later - four new horses safely in the Wardens' stables alongside the returned Assan - Ives was whistling and in a much improved mood. They would be leaving Val Royeaux soon. That was a mixed point for him - he would miss his home, despite its Game, but there was no cure waiting for any of them in Val Royeaux. Artana's combat record alone had easily earned her the right to find a retirement that didn't involve wading through muck and mire 'til she died to the darkspawn.

He and his brother? They had obligations within Val Royeaux that were best not left to others, if it could be avoided. Unlike Artana, though, with adequate self-preservation, they had over twenty years to avoid the fate of their own Callings. This time next year might be lonely indeed if they weren't successful, but he'd done  _vast_  amounts of research. He had nothing but optimism. Borne of corrupt dealings in the Orlesian Circle Tower in a time of rebellion, he knew the medallions they sought existed  _somewhere_. He knew their purpose, and as such he  _knew_ there was hope. In some ways, he wasn't all too demanding: hope was enough to sate him for now.

So with their mission in his mind and Martin far from it, and the amusement from imagining Bernard's face when he realized hundreds of sovereigns worth of equine equity had simply trotted right out from under his nose, Ives' good mood persisted. His steps carried him (in time with his whistling) around the corner of the Keep and back into the courtyard, offering him a view of the training spaces and the grand gate. Two figures were standing at it, unimportant to a cursory glance - but then, he thought for a moment the blond man standing with his arms hooked through the bars looked a great deal like his Fence, and he looked again.

While there were certainly similarities to DuMere in his blond hair, it couldn't have been him. That had become all the less interesting, though, considering with whom he spoke. Livilla was on the other side of the gate, leaning against the column, speaking with him intently. She flipped her hand here and again to animate something, to which the blond man would respond with chuckle or a head movement, vaguely gesturing as well when he spoke. The sound of her light laugh floated through the air when the man made a particularly exaggerated gesture that  _might_  have had additional meaning, though without hearing the conversation, Ives could not know for certain.

Naturally that made him want to know all the more, so Ives stopped whistling and began to detour away from the Keep and out to the gates, keeping his steps quiet and his intentions dubious. Livilla's laugh held a beauty rarely heard from a face that few would call beautiful, and Ives had just crept into earshot. Eager to hear what the blond man had to say, he held a hand to his ear and caught...

... Caught... the very disappointing finale of their conversation, the mysterious blond bowing extravagantly as he pulled back from the gates. Ives' eyes widened and he hurried back a few steps, the possibility of getting caught quite high without Livilla distracted. He had his suspicions that her missing eye had migrated to the back of her head - and his regrets that such a joke was probably too morbid for polite company. A nimble dance around a rack of shields had him well hidden as she turned from the gate, and impeccable nonchalance was simple to enact with a flute that needed polishing. Even as he rubbed a little cloth around the mouthpiece of his fine silver antique, he snorted a soft breath of a chuckle.  _The entendre is the world's finest comedic gift._

They had a long journey ahead of them. Hopefully everyone agreed about his comedic stylings. Otherwise it would feel quite a bit longer... well, for them. Once he was certain that Livilla was none the wiser of his spying, he slipped his flute into its new case - kept after a long debate in which he decided it was better to  _appear_  to accept what had been gifted - and trotted into the Keep, intent on finishing those last few errands before the trip tomorrow.

Later that night, after the last arrangement had been made and the final missive sent, Ives crept into his quarters, uncertain whether or not Jean would be there or finding solace in bed with Artana. When the empty bed informed Ives of Jean's location, he felt an odd mixture of relief and jealousy. After what had happened in the Durante estate, Ives knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that his gentle brother had indeed suffered from the expertly aimed attack, an injury all the more subtle since it touched not flesh or bone. And yet, Ives himself had not been able to rest in the arms of his sweet Dalish princess for more nights than he cared to recount, and after the events of his confrontation with Martin, he ached for the sweet,  _pure_  release more than ever...

He sighed as he quickly dressed himself for slumber. Ah, but it was a long-standing agreement between the brothers:  _only one in her bed at a time._

Shaking his head, he threw back the covers and lay down. After a few tosses and turns, he settled into a position that allowed him to at least relax his body, though his mind continued to race - a not uncommon occurrence the night before a journey. Still, he had learned the trick of forcing his body into at least the semblance of sleep so that it would feel refreshed come morning even if his mind could not claim the same.

Sometime during the night, between worrying about the varying colors of the coming year's street festival candies, the recent plague of political murders, and what he was going to have for breakfast, Ives heard the faintest of whispers in the room, a sound that could not possibly have been made by a returning brother - or any other Warden, for that matter. Instinct led him to the most obvious suspect to produce the sound, and his racing thoughts halted as his immediate surroundings became his only concern. Letting his eyes open to the merest slits, he forced his body to remain relaxed as he caught the barest of movements in the shadows.

The motion resolved into a tall figure which slipped through the darkness of the room as if it were a second home. He watched it as best as he could without betraying the state of his awareness, knowing he was at a most distinct disadvantage in this situation. As Martin - for it could not possibly be another - settled into a kneeling position next to the bed, Ives fought to keep his pulse and breathing in order, not particularly wanting to know how the man would react if he suspected Ives were awake.

When Ives was absolutely sure he couldn't quite manage it for more than the scant couple of minutes he had, he shifted subtly and drew a breath, his tone carrying that particularly groggy ruggedness of a man more than half asleep. He raised his hand and pointedly missed his face, then tried again to scratch an imaginary itch before muttering something about cranberries. Theatrics in place, Ives shifted more and turned the opposite way, supposing that the loss of his view of the man was probably better than having his chest so obvious to someone so well trained in reading breaths. After all, his life's work was to stop that phenomenon in as many unfortunate targets as were necessary. Hopefully, Ives hadn't earned such a status so very soon into this misadventure.

After a while, he could make out the barest of sounds, a soft scratching noise that made... no sense, honestly. He had expected total silence or _..._  well, he wasn't sure what he would have expected beyond nothing. It seemed to stretch into eternity, though more likely only a few minutes passed. Finally he heard a whisper of cloth, and the sensation of someone _hovering_  over him, accompanied by a faint whisper of...  _paper,_  the edge of sound from a piece of it being folded.

Then, with a final whisper of cloth, the sense of another person in the room simply... disappeared. Strange as it all had been, there were some things that made more sense now. Clearly he'd been taking a drawing, much like the one that had been left the night after they danced the  _Caged Lion_. While he'd suspected that the idealized picture had been drawn from a live model, he was grateful it had not progressed farther than mere scratches on a piece of paper. With the netting of scars that practically covered the assassin head to toe, Ives couldn't quite ignore the dark and admittedly frightening thought that perhaps he would have had  _other_  ideas than paper to express his art.

Assassins were an interesting breed, and sadly he knew all too many of them. True, yes, Orlais in general preferred to _destroy_  a person rather than to mercifully end their suffering by killing them, but assassins were still in demand. Between the Court and his deep involvement with the Thieves' Guild,  _plus_  the refugee assassins hiding away in the Wardens, he could name enough acquaintances to claim a certain familiarity with the  _type_  of person who chose the path of assassin. The vast majority of those he knew considered themselves artists in a most macabre way, their vision of death as fine an art to them as a poem to the tune of love might be to himself. No, Ives couldn't find 'art' in a single pinprick dropping a six foot man to the stone, nor could he find 'beauty' in a slit throat and its wide bloom of crimson, but he knew several men - and one or two women - who  _could_.

Whether the art Martin created was a healthy hobby to draw him away from work or a pastime when he was bored of killing that was just waiting to blossom into something gruesome, he honestly couldn't quite tell. The worrisome possibilities made his skin crawl, as it may just have been his skin that would feel any ... conflicting artistic differences.

In the end it was all really just aimless speculation that had chewed up the remainder of his night. Ives finally let his eyes open back up and sighed: the light in the sky through his thin hewn stone windows told him there'd be no sleep for him before their departure at false dawn. He rolled from the bed considerably more sore than he would have preferred prior to a months-long occupation of a hard leather saddle, particularly since he hadn't experienced that particular  _pleasure_  for quite some time.

All things considered, maybe this was a better alternative. The saddle, that is. Even though his frustration was slowly and steadily mounting to where he'd gladly take a different manner of sore ass altogether, it was truly a concern that Martin would do more than temporary damage. The man  _had_  taken Ives' daggers, after all - perhaps so that Ives would be defenseless against him. Still, if Artana kept leaving him so far from her bed...

That was a thought for another day. Ives began to dress himself, preemptively rubbing his ass as he thought again about the saddle after buckling his breeches. As he surveyed his supplies, hip lighter than it should be without his blades, he sighed, "This ... will be a long trip."


	10. Hidden Strength

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the journey north from Val Royeaux, Ives Durante re-discovers why he prefers to stay safe at home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to our fantastic beta readers, Mille Libri and ShebasDawn!

 

* * *

"This group has an agenda against fun," Ives grumbled, an hour into a debate about the varying armors available to the fairer of the sexes. They had been riding in precisely the right angle for the sun to make them wince, so he gladly allowed Carrot to deal with most of the steering while he looked elsewhere. His mind followed his eyes forward, considering the way Artana's torso was all too happily bared in Dalish leathers. The resulting conversation had gone to the direction ... well, to the direction most would _unfairly stereotype_ him to bring it in. "It's not the _battle function_ of a woman's armor that's important when you're talking about being-"

"Ives! Please, we are in polite company!" Though Jean tried valiantly to interrupt, the discussion clearly having elevated beyond what his delicate sensibilities could handle in one afternoon, Ives wouldn't allow him to have quite the last, _predictable_ word. "It's one thing if they'd _asked_ you, but, spare-"

"-them the _indignity_ , yes, yes," Ives sighed. Jean glared in return, but Ives knew it was simply a symbol of victory. He knew his brother would turn to give him an admonishing glare, and he waited until Jean's eyes were upon him before he rolled his eyes and settled back in his saddle, a hand on his thigh.

Isabeau, the accidental instigator of the subject matter at hand, cleared her throat. "All I meant was that there must be a way to design armor which allows more movement without sacrificing coverage or protection." Her hand went to the griffon on her breastplate. "I didn't mean that the current armor should be, ah, _reshaped_ so as to... conform to the contours of the wearer."

"Yes, let us guide the blade to the heart with channels," Artana commented. Honestly, though she had spurred the conversation with her ... _sparse coverage_ , Ives couldn't believe she was actually paying any attention to what they were saying.

"Ah, but the opportunity!" Ives insisted, the reward for his enthusiasm coming in the form of a groan from Jean. "Why _not_ do this? Surely we all agree that Artana's Dalish armor is most enticing, on or off the battlefield, so why should such a style of beauty be ignored simply because one woman is an archer and another a warrior of the sword and shield? If the steel is hard, the sword will be no worry." A purposeful misconception for the sake of momentum.

"Well, I certainly wouldn't want steel closer to my chest on cold mornings," Isabeau retorted, teasing Ives directly this time. "Frigid metal would _not_ be welcome there, I assure you."

"Such a cruel image to put in my mind, _cherie."_ Indeed, it was, particularly since it brought to mind that most singular dress she'd worn which he'd been virtuously trying to forget. Valiantly he tried to shift that line of thinking to contemplate Artana's appearance should such a piece of fashion come into her possession, but sadly that only meant he thought of _both_ women in the slip of fabric and _more_ mounds of pale flesh exposed. "And entirely inapplicable to a discussion of improving armor for the purpose of aesthetics."

Eyes dancing with mischief, Isabeau arched an eyebrow. "I notice you are not talking about 'improving' your own armor, or Jean's. It seems a trifle unfair for you to come up with ways to put my figure on display when yours is still so very well hidden."

Livilla snorted. "It's not as if we haven't seen the singing lout in all of his dubious glory _anyway_ , so there's nothing new actually entering into the conversation." She paused, ignoring the sputtering coming from Ives as Isabeau ducked further down in her saddle. "Though admittedly, I was not there for Jean's accidental-"

"Why are you stripping in front of recruits?" Artana asked Ives, not waiting for Livilla to finish.

"You didn't ask _Jean_ that!" Ives balked.

"I have no reason to be concerned about Jean," she replied simply.

"You are a woman of a cold, cold heart." Without a victory in _this_ battle, Ives swiftly resorted to the standard fallback: pouting.

"Do not worry, Commander," Livilla assured Artana in a calming tone. "He had the good sense to wait until Isabeau woke up after her Joining to display the goods. No recruits were debauched, I assure you."

" _Livilla!"_ Isabeau said, face flaming red.

The mage glanced back, and Ives was unsurprised by the smirk on her face. "What? You'd rather I describe what you were wearing when I found you with the lout behind a locked door?"

"I... will not be getting sex for quite some time, I imagine." Ives sighed, making assumptions based on Artana's neutral expression. "Well, enjoy, _frère_..."

Jean took a steadying breath. Ives wasn't certain how the man hadn't popped yet, with all this talk of sex and breasts and other things the man's carefully formed concepts of chivalry deemed more than merely inappropriate for discussion in mixed company. "I … would just enjoy if we could discuss something other than nudity and debauchery."

"Wouldn't you always," Ives retorted. "You know, you ought to relax more. Have a bit of fun!"

"I am perfectly capable of fun when it is _appropriate,"_ Jean insisted. "This is simply not the time-"

"-or place, yes." The sentence was not hard to finish, sadly. In some ways his brother truly was entirely too predictable. Ives squinted up at the sun and reached for his water, frowning when he found the container empty. "But it _is_ the time and place to find some more water. The horses will be due for a rest soon anyway, _non?"_ Gathering Carrot's reins a bit more firmly, he nudged the horse forward. "I shall return with the location of water in which to frolic - or, as _some others_ would prefer, _not_ to do so."

It was only a few minutes after he'd left them behind when his mind turned to a contemplation that had persisted since leaving Val Royeaux. The conversation had been entertaining - particularly towards the end - but it had been naught but a distraction from what still ruled his thoughts. Letting Carrot pick his own path, Ives reached beneath his tunic and pulled out a piece of paper kept there since their departure from the Keep. The memory of the dance with Martin manifested in a scrutiny of the drawing he'd left, and Ives found himself dwelling upon it more than was likely healthy.

Still, it was almost irresistible. _This depiction, it holds such intention, such flow, such skill and beauty._ Ives ran his finger over the lines of the small drawing of himself, trying to somehow see them through the eyes, through the _mind,_ of the one who had laid them to paper. _Ah,_ mon ami _, what are you? Be you man, beast, or simply something I have not yet found a name for? I dare say I do not even know exactly_ how _to worry about you properly - as of yet._ His ears picked up the sound of hooves approaching, and he quickly tucked the paper underneath his tunic, attempting nonchalance to avoid questions. The music of the clicks and clops - a parade-ground cadence, even while traveling - told him who approached, and he turned with a smile to regard his more muscular, if less _charming_ , mirror. _"Oui, mon frère?"_

"We were not sure where you had gone for so long. Artana found water not long after you volunteered to search for it." Jean wore a frown, and Ives believed perhaps he had earned it. In the last few days since leaving Val Royeaux, he had been remarkably quiet unless goaded into conversation, torn and mulling on the matter of his dangerous yet fascinating opponent in this game he played.

"Ah, I was simply caught up in the scenery. It has been some time since we saw more than city cobblestones, keep walls, or crumbling ruins." Ives gestured, a hand flourishing towards the trees, some still colorful thanks to the season. "But perhaps you have been too distracted by _other_ views to admire this one, _non_?" Ives' teasing smile faded, the immediate way guilt writ itself across Jean's face making him worry the jab had been too strong.

"You have ... have not asked her to share your bed that I am aware of. Do you think she has just fallen into habit, or is there something more?"

"Do you mean do I think she's finally decided to choose?" Ives asked, keeping the pain in his heart at the possibility far from his face. "Ah, but it felt as though she never would, _non_? It has been so long since our fight for her." With a rueful smile, Ives wondered, "I imagine, sometimes, what may have happened if she did not part our little brawl."

"Ives-" Jean began, his voice hesitant.

"No, no, _mon frère_ , I am not bitter, I just marvel at our extraordinary situation. Think of it! We were raised as we were born, closer than close, before the argument which drove us apart." Ives paused. That was an old wound best left without specific mention. Like a puncture wound from a blade, the smallest scratch might open the whole thing up again. It was a long time ago, besides. A mistake that had driven them into completely opposite worlds, with Jean embracing an idealized chivalry in the Chevalier while Ives danced into the decadence and deception of the Game. "Fortunately, Cateline's taste in men surpassed her taste in music."

Jean smiled fondly, but Ives knew he wouldn't laugh boisterously save to convince others of his happiness - a facade Jean did not maintain around Ives. "She spoke often of that. I would have liked to see you stand straight in that armor. To think, she had no idea of how I felt about her."

"Singing in Chevalier armor is quite the trick, I assure you. The echoes are extraordinarily distracting. I do not understand how you can wear such a thing in battle." Ives matched his brother's expression, from the happy recollection of Cateline to the inevitable melancholy of her loss. Quickly he moved the conversation on, knowing that her loss was yet another dip of the blade into Jean's flesh, another surface best left unscratched. "The Wardens proved a decent home for us, _non?_ A place to leave the past behind." Now his own face softened in memory. "And, of course, it is where we met Artana. Already second to the Commander, even back then, and I could not have been more enraptured. Nor you, as it turned out." It was, by his own standards, a relatively minor jab, yet it still caused Jean's ears to redden. "A true miracle for us, regardless, since she is the one who truly brought us back together. I know it is not to your comfort, of course."

"I admit, it is not my first choice, this- this-"

"Sharing?" Ives provided.

Jean sighed. _"Oui._ Yet for a woman such as Artana..." Jean's voice trailed away.

" _Oui,"_ Ives said softly. "Perhaps I helped you to survive Cateline's passing, but it was Artana who brought you back into the fullness of life and joy again."

The warrior remained silent, looking away and at the ground. Ives wasn't surprised that it took him a little time to respond. All this mention of wounds, yet the threat of a new one loomed all too close to fade, considering Artana's health. "Just as she pulled you from the darkest depths of the Game," Jean finally pointed out. "You were a Grey Warden, but still you were recklessly consumed. She gave you a reason to allow yourself freedom from the worst of its excesses."

Ives nodded, though the thought of the Game made his hand rise almost instinctively to where the drawing lay under his tunic. _Has no such hero given_ you _the same reason, Martin?_ he wondered. With a short shake of his head, he forced his hand down to wrap around Carrot's reins once more. "Very true, _mon frère._ Yet I am still most glad for our forced proximity, even if I am less than ecstatic about the reason for it. Slowly but surely, _non?"_

"Slowly but surely." It had become almost a code phrase between them, the slow but steady rebuilding of the bridge which Ives had inadvertently burnt to cinders so spectacularly in their youth. "And Artana-"

"-will make her choice when the little hummingbird hums its sweet song in her ear for only one of us." Ives could not deny a sharp pang that the song might one day omit his name, and saw Jean shift in his saddle as if an echo of the thought seemed to pass through his mind. "Or die with each of us at her side."

"Maker give us strength to prevent that," Jean said quietly, but with a fervency that rang true and clear.

Ives took his turn to shift uncomfortably in his saddle, a mirror to his brother a few moments prior. Faith was another divide between them, a difference Ives tried to downplay as much as he was able. He did frequently invoke the Maker to his struggles, after all. Yet where Jean had retreated into the Chant after Cateline's death, using his own interpretation of the Chantry's teachings as both comfort and shield against his loss, Ives had become more and more distant from the Maker and His Chantry, viewing the existence of the former and the sincerity of the latter with an increasing diffidence. In short, Jean prayed, Ives invoked, but only one had any hope for a response. Even Artana's presence in his life, miracle though he termed it, could as easily be due to the efforts of her Dalish Creators as the Maker. For Artana's sake, he would have faith in a wild animal, if it offered the key to her health. _"Oui._ It is, after all, the Durante motto: _Hope where others find none."_

Pushing the somber mood away as best he could, he turned a smile to Jean once more. "So, no, I will not begrudge you time with our Artana. I hold hope, you see, that the hummingbird's song will continue as it currently stands for many beautiful years."

Jean reached out and laid his gauntleted hand on Ives's gloved one, his bright blue eyes meeting a matching pair, and tightened around it. For a moment, the years and disagreements and distance fell away, and they were but two young boys who were all the other had in a world that seemed set against them. Ives felt a tickling at the back of his eyes as he turned his hand over and squeezed back. At the moment, Ives realized that no matter the outcome of Artana's choice, something fundamental had been restored to his life: he had his brother back.

"You know," Jean started, "Hummingbirds do not sing, they-"

"Ives! Jean!"

The two brothers looked back to the woman who called to them, moving as if synchronized with the clockwork so popular among the elite of Val Royeaux. _"Oui, amour?"_ they called in unison. Ives was a bit surprised everyone had caught up with the brothers during the conversation.

Even from this distance, Ives saw Artana's glowing amber eyes roll, and he shared a grin with Jean. "We are stopping to rest the horses. I need you two to attend to them so that I can scout ahead. The wildlife is too quiet."

They both straightened in their saddles, suddenly all business. "We will take care of it," Jean assured her, and turned Ebony to trot to where Isabeau and Livilla were waiting.

Ives urged Carrot closer to Artana, taking Assan's simple rein from her as she dismounted. "Trouble?" he asked softly.

"I will know more soon. Keep the horses here until I return. We may need them to be fresh if this turns out to be more than shy local fauna." Resettling her quiver across her back, she deftly strung her bow and looked up at him. "Tell the others to be ready."

He nodded, reaching back to pull his crossbow from its holster on his back for a quick inspection. It never hurt to be prepared, after all.

.~^~.

"Sixteen?" Isabeau gasped. Ives could only grin at her adorable surprise. With the horses taken care of and Artana still seeking to make sense of the eerie silence, there was little else to do but talk while waiting for her return. The twins were a favorite topic, it seemed. Ives was not fooled by how the women kept deflecting discussion away from themselves, but the men were also good sports about it. "For a man? That's... that's quite young for marriage, even among the nobles of Val Royeaux."

"Well, Bernard has nothing but high expectations for us... Even now, when he would rather our names be struck from the record, he expects us to uphold the Durante name so long as we have it. Sixteen is a man, is it not? Well, a man should be a father. Still, the old goat had to wait. We were just speaking about it earlier, actually. Ives dressed as me and poured out a poetic apology, and I think - had he not - I think Cateline never would have given me her favor at that joust." Jean smiled, as he always did when thinking of his early times with Cateline.

"Ah, to be fair, I imagine she was suspicious it was me - far more eloquent than _you_ will ever be, _non_?" Ives grinned, his jab good-hearted but exceptionally true.

Isabeau giggled, interrupting Ives' thoughts " _I_ don't think so," she said. "A little _too_ certain of himself, sometimes, is our little lout, right, Jean?"

"These sensitive ears are insulted..." the bard grumbled. Sensitive enough to hear someone approaching, as well. Everyone turned expectantly towards the rustling bushes, and Ives doubted he was the only one doing so with a hand on his weapon until they were certain it was Artana.

The Commander had indeed returned, though with bad news of a large encampment of bandits ahead - directly between them and their intended destination of Arlesans. With no simple way around them, the decision had been made to address the problem in a suitably metallic fashion.

"There's a gorge on the east side of their camp and hills to the west," Artana explained as she drew in the dirt of their small clearing. "About a mile away. With the sun setting, the hills will be difficult to look at from their camp and provide the best vantage to see into it. Ives and I will start here," she pointed at a convenient pebble which represented the clearing itself, "and make our way to the west side of the hills, taking out any scouts along the way quietly. Jean, how long until the sun sets?"

Jean glanced up at the sky, gauging the position of the sun. "Perhaps thirty minutes, no more."

Artana nodded. Jean's sense of time and geography had not failed them yet, and Ives knew it would not fail them now. "That gives us enough time to get into place. When the sun touches the horizon, Jean and Isabeau will ride from the southern edge of their camp and engage as many as possible. Livilla, bolster their armor with as much protection as you can. I want to ensure they maintain the attention of the bandits long enough for us to fire several volleys."

Livilla nodded. "I presume I'm to remain otherwise out of reach?"

"We can't risk our only mage. You may use your own discretion if they have an apostate among them." Artana looked up. "You have your orders." With a firm nod, everyone stood and broke, hurrying to their appointed tasks.

Ives followed Artana after swiping his foot across the 'battle plan', just in case an errant bandit scout came across their path too soon. Twice Artana stopped him as they moved through the wooded terrain to their designated spot, though only once did she fire at a target he had barely registered as movement before her arrow found its mark. The poor bandit's body was quickly dragged into the underbrush and covered with a few branches and leaves before they moved forward again.

They reached their destination with scarcely a few minutes to spare, and Ives performed one more silent check of his weapon before stilling completely. He was waiting for a commotion in the camp to signal the warriors' arrival while Artana watched the sun like a hawk, arrow nocked and ready, her chest still with calm breaths.

When the shouts began, followed shortly by the deliberate sound of hooves that could only be called a _charge_ , Ives and Artana rose from their place and began to fire against the bandits. It was a controlled frenzy, staring down from an ideal vantage and firing as swiftly as their weapons could reload and their eyes settle on the next target. As in previous such battles, Artana, her archery skills honed by ten years of pushing herself to the limits of her ability, stayed in place and targeted those bandits who were close in combat with their fellow Grey Wardens, minimizing danger of friendly fire. Knowing he held no candle to her, Ives stood and moved over the hill so he could focus his attacks on those more distant from the main melee, sparing only a brief glance to the cloud of dust and steel to check on their wellbeing.

Just as with Artana, his shots were placed with care: disable if possible, kill only if necessary. Though the latter was sometimes inevitable, he worked his way carefully along the northern side of the camp, using his crossbow to pick away at the enemies. Such reluctance to kill used far more bolts than if he simply shot them in the head, but even the strongest and most ox-like of enemies eventually got the message to _stay down_ with enough bolts sticking out of him. He preferred to fell them like that, at a safe distance from being directly engaged. This time it wasn't just preference, either. Even here, in the midst of the battle, he was dreadfully aware of the absence of his daggers at his hip. _I should acquire some daggers in the next town, even if they are not my preferred type. I suppose I should have done so before leaving Val Royeaux..._ He shook his head. He had been a bit... _distracted._

He paused when he reached the gorge, taking his time to load another bolt into his crossbow as he gauged how the main fight was proceeding. A frown came to his lips when he saw that Jean and Isabeau had been separated from each other, their horses forced apart. He immediately saw the problem: two of the bandits had polearms. Isabeau's mare, though sturdy and well trained, was no war horse, and kept shying away from thrusts of the gleaming weapon. At the same time, Isabeau dared not dismount lest she be overwhelmed by those on the ground. Ives saw that Artana was trying to feather the bandits with the longer weapons, but they were either lucky or cleverly disrupting the Commander's vantage by putting Isabeau's horse between them and her. Worse yet, even Livilla was unable to help assail them as they were too close to attack with magic without the risk of hitting Isabeau as well.

Ives frowned as he took all this in. He was no use to Isabeau at range either, so he sheathed his crossbow to aid mobility and began to jog towards the cluster of men around the horse. Though he had no idea how he might help besides to draw attention and run them away from Isabeau, there was an urgency in the need to _try_. Jean was doing his best to rejoin Isabeau, he could see that clearly, but Ebony was likewise surrounded by enemies, making it difficult to intervene. Try as she might, the young warrior was losing ground with her nervous horse. It wasn't simply that the mare's eyes were wider and wider with fear every jab, but also that she was backing closer and closer to the edge of the gorge. Just as Ives threw aside the caution of his jog to break into a run, one of the bandits pressed forward, shoving the end of his poleax directly at the now skittish mare's face.

Though in the long, _long_ moments that followed the bandit fell to the ground with a Dalish arrow in his head, the damage was done. The mare reared, out of control and lashing out wildly against those in front of her, and took that one fatal step too far back.

Ives cried out and rushed forward the last few feet, ignoring the arrow that picked off another of the bandits - just as he'd ignored whatever he cursed, and the sword swung at him. There was no thought as he frantically grabbed at the mare's reins, perhaps hoping that as her hooves skidded and scrabbled on the uneven ground at the lip of the gorge he would somehow provide the purchase she needed to recover. The reality was that it was futile, an empty gesture of desperation of a man refusing to stand by and do nothing when a friend was in danger. The inexorable pull of the horse's weight carried him forward, feet digging into the ground, as the horse, neighing with its own terror, twisted and fell over the edge of the gorge - taking Isabeau with her.

Ives felt the reins jerked from his hands, the pain so immediate he suspected at least one dislocated finger. It hurt, far beyond a description like _stinging_ or _burning_ , but his instincts did not allow him to stop. He hit the ground at the lip of the gorge, wide eyes taking in what they could. At the bottom he saw only a dark mass of plants and vegetation at the base of a sheer drop. _Too far to jump._ With a curse he glanced around, trying to find Isabeau, but saw only the now weakly struggling mare, only two of her legs moving as she tried to right herself. Ives winced, knowing that the horse was done for.

" _Chérie!"_ he called, hoping desperately for an answer, all thoughts of the fight behind him forgotten. Without pausing to further consider his actions, lest he actually realize how reckless a feat it was, Ives swung himself over the edge, looking for handholds with all the expertise of a master thief, finding chinks and crevices he could use to descend as quickly as possible. About halfway down the cliff face, the stone crumbled beneath his hands. Time grew slow again and he felt his stomach clench as he fell backwards, the knowledge of _how to fall_ helping his body reflexively curl into as compact a bundle as he could manage in anticipation of the impact.

The breath was knocked out of him as he hit the ground. It could have been much worse without a blend of skill and sheer luck, both combined helping him to land in such a way as to be battered but not broken. Once recovered from the abrupt dispersion of air from his lungs, Ives rolled to his feet, weaving slightly as he oriented himself. As he searched the rapidly darkening bottom of the gorge he called again, "Isabeau!"

"Here," he heard a strained response, and he almost sobbed with relief as he headed towards the sound.

She was quite a ways beyond the poor horse, a fact for which Ives was grateful: it meant the mare hadn't landed on her. She was sunk so deeply into the surprisingly lush ground cover of the gorge's bottom that her back was wet from the creek hidden beneath the green, her sword and shield laying about ten feet away. He knelt next to her, gently taking her hand into his as he reached out and brushed some errant leaves and strands of hair away from her face. Her eyes were a bit glassy, and his questing fingers found a nasty lump on her head. "Ah, Isabeau, poor thing," he said softly.

"P-pushed away from her," she managed. Her breath was coming in short, sharp gasps, and her face was drawn into a grimace of pain. "Rhea... Rhea, is she-?"

" _Shh, shh,"_ Ives said soothingly. "Let us worry about you first, _non?"_ He grew frustrated with trying to soothe her with a hand stinging and too swollen to cooperate, so he shifted and repositioned to use his other hand instead. "I have one of Artana's potions. Let's start there." The bump was bad. He began to hum, pushing his bardic ability to its limit to energize her and stave off the draw of sleep. Meanwhile he dug for that potion he had promised, a bright red blend of elfroot and a concentrator agent, distilled and distilled until it thickened. Artana had the touch for creating such things, but he ... well, all he could do was administer them. He stopped humming as he did so, his own purple and fattened finger only grabbing his attention as he wondered how precisely he'd be getting them back up the gorge considering the injury. He glanced again to the miserable horse, its pain having immobilized it, and up to try and guess the distance back to the top. _Too far_ was the final determination made by his mind.

When the vial was empty he looked back down and discarded the glass so he could use both hands to massage her throat, helping her to swallow it down so the healing properties could hurry on into her body. "Does anything else hurt but your head?"

"L-leg hurt at first, but not n-now," she whispered. "Just c-cold." Her hand tightened around his slightly. "And sleepy." In the distance, the sounds of battle continued, even as the light continued to dim.

"Well, I'm warm, and we're going to talk so that you are in fact not sleepy," he persisted, shifting and carefully moving his hands to unbuckle the latches of her armor. Ives was almost certain this wouldn't work. He wasn't a warrior himself. He couldn't carry her with all the extra weight of leather and steel. Yet he still looked up and down the gorge whenever he didn't need to give his hands attention from his eyes, trying to see which way was a shorter trek towards any kind of incline. Ives was still going to try. "Now, then, we'll just have to come back for all of this... once I get the rest off. I think I may have to shed a bit of mine as well. Perhaps our next descent could be with ropes, though. _Oui?_ "

"Who will help you with yours? It's so heavy." She yawned, blinking blearily at him, but her voice seemed a bit stronger as she focused on him. "Is Ebony all right? How did you get down here, anyway?"

Ives' brow furrowed, but he decided it best not to further confuse her. If she believed him to be Jean, then Jean he could be. "I'll manage," he insisted. "Ebony is up top. Does asking questions help you to stay awake? You may ask as many as you wish if that is true."

"Do I have to stay awake?" She yawned again, then winced and put a hand to her head. "Oh, my head." She squinted at him. "Those rings around your neck. They were your marriage rings? With Cateline? They're quite beautiful."

That was his Warden's pendant and nothing more, of course, but Ives knew full well that _Jean_ kept his wedding bands on the matching chain of his own. "You absolutely must stay awake," he confirmed in a firm, _Jean-like_ tone of voice, emulating his brother as best as he could. Any temptation which threatened his sworn love to Artana was against the values he'd been trained - _brainwashed,_ if Ives were asked his opinion on the matter - to uphold to the death as a Chevalier. Unlike the vast majority of his peers, he truly did strive to uphold them beyond the public eye, too. "Both bands. Mine on the right, hers on the left, so it is closer to my heart and couldn't possibly be lost during battle. Our family own a number of mines for gold and silver, and we keep the finest jewelers and artisans in our pockets. Did you know that? These rings were crafted particularly to Cateline's taste." _And to fit her... ah,_ sturdy f _ingers which Jean loved oh-so-well. How fortunate I still know my brother as myself._

"Oh, that's so sweet. You don't mind talking about her, do you? I'll admit I am ever so curious." A scream echoed from the top of the gorge, and Isabeau's brow furrowed. "Will they be all right, do you think?"

"Worry yourself about our conversation. That scream most certainly did not belong to one of ours." He had her weight down enough, but he was still concerned about the trek. "Here, hold against this," he said, hefting a stick to her, giving her something to leverage against. "Ask me something else. Please, about Cateline, if that is where your curiosity lies." Meanwhile, he swiftly worked the buckles of his own leathers and quiver, intent to leave both behind.

She latched onto the stick, leaning her head onto it as she closed her eyes. "The children must miss her," she said quietly. "I know what it's like to lose a mother so young." A shiver shook her body, and she struggled not to fall. "And so horrible for you. I saw the love my parents had for each other. I can't imagine one living without the other. Oh!" She opened her eyes and stared at him. "I'm sorry, I- That was rather tactless. I'm sorry, Jean."

He noticed her eyes close, but he was half out of his chest piece and couldn't reach her. Just as he was about to reach out and pinch her, she shook herself awake, but he rushed his efforts all the same. "Sympathy? Tactless? Perish the thought. You're right, it was a challenge. For the longest, I was unable to even rest my eyes overlong on a woman. If any redemption, I can say the tragedy led me to the Chant."

"Artana is fortunate," Isabeau mumbled, eyes looking downward before her lids sagged shut again. Ives wondered if she had meant to say the words aloud at all, but before he could inquire, she murmured, "I don't know the Chant that well. Mother used to read it to me each night, but after she was killed, nobody read it to me anymore."

"Well, on a better night, you should ask me to read it for you," Ives blurted before he could even think better of it. The guilt welled immediately, so brazenly leading her to ask something of Jean that he would _enjoy_ sharing. "Here, up we go," he said, finally prepared to lift her. His muscles weren't so solid as Jean's, but they were still _there_ , and he was going to test them today. Containing the heave as best he could, Ives carefully maneuvered Isabeau into his arms and forced himself to his feet. If only he knew better how to cycle his breathing. " _There_ we go," he strained, sucking in another breath. Oh, how he wished he had his brother's strength! "Now... keep talking to me. Do you miss the training we did at the Keep?" _Ives,_ he scolded himself harshly, though he had no one to blame for opening his mouth but himself.

"At this exact moment?" Isabeau asked, a hint of a rueful smile on her face. "I wish we had done more training, especially with horses. It seems t'me there's not 'nough time in th' day lately." The slur in her voice didn't escape Ives' notice, and he pushed himself towards what he hoped was uphill, out of the gorge. It was brutally difficult not to trip or slip, the tangles of roots or the wet mud and pebbles of the creek fighting against him every slow, cautious step. The sounds of fighting had finally faded above, but he still preferred to get Isabeau to Livilla as soon as possible. "I do miss our sessions... our swords dance well togeth- togeth-" She frowned, and her hand rose, fingers touching her lips.

"I can understand you. Let's try the next thing, hm?" Ives asked, his voice yet again straining, more than just a touch. "What sort of training do you wish you could - could do?" He paused long enough to take a couple of breaths, then pressed on. For all he wanted to hurry, he had to be slow. He wouldn't even have known he was going upwards if not for the burning in his calves, and each step had to be preceded with a cautious tap of his toe. It was too dark to get a good sense of his footing. "You - you have to be direct with me, _non_? I'm very shy with beautiful women."

The hand that had risen to grasp his tunic tightened as her lips parted in a soft gasp. "Oh! I... You..." She looked away. "You've... never put it quite that way before." After a moment, she turned back to him, eyes narrowed slightly. "You aren't shy around Artana. I suppose it would get in the way, wouldn't it?"

He was empathetic enough to know she wasn't sure what to think of his compliment, but aside from the discomfort, he was too preoccupied to seek more depth to the reaction. Perhaps his elven princess had even heard him, for just as the darkness was getting truly overwhelming, fire rained from the sky to light their way. Flame-tipped arrows, landing in intervals of a few feet up the closest thing to a path they had. While undeniably a great benefit , it was also making him realize how much further he had to go. Deciding to focus instead on how he was supposed to be Jean, Ives said, "Chevalric codes and ... the Chantry's teachings allow but one beauty at a time." After sucking a deep breath through his nose, he added, "Since Cateline's passing, I am quite entangled in both those lifestyles."

"Oh, of- of course. I understand." Her hand latched onto his tunic, but lightly, as another yawn emerging from her mouth. "Ah, you asked about p-practice. When I was young, Papa... Papa would wake me up 'fore the sun, to practice being a l-lady. I... I think I'd like t'do the s-same for w-weapons."

Ives was beginning to fret over just how much blood might be pooling under that nasty bump. Her words were labored and her eyelids were closed more often than not. "You should hold to that desire and be sure to leap upon the opportunity," he forced, his throat now dry and adding to the labor of his words. They had been climbing, but he wasn't sure of their actual position, nor their proximity to the others. The urgency was rising, but he had no second wind left to give. It was a tense, hopeless feeling of mounted anxiety that did not pair well with his exhaustion. "Just a little longer, _chèrie._ You wouldn't want the surprise of a kiss to... wake you, hm?" _He_ could use the surprise of reinforcements at this point. What had he been thinking, jumping over a cliff? Of course, to only have a broken finger for his trouble, he couldn't complain. It was his own fault that he was precisely the sort of impulsive fool that would do something like that.

Small blessings, at least - at the word _kiss_ , her eyes popped open, and she looked up at him with wide eyes. "Wh-what did you say?"

Just at that moment, even more light blossomed around them, and Ives looked forward to see Livilla standing not fifty paces ahead of him. There was also a shadow causing quite a ruckus as he shuffled down the gravel to meet Ives near the top. Her staff was the source of luminescence, and her face was pinched with fear when she saw them. "Ives! Thank Dirthamen!" She hurried towards them, Jean's clanking presence finally making more sense when not backlit.

"I-Ives?" Isabeau faltered, just before her eyes rolled up into her head. Her body went completely limp, dangling in Ives' weakening but desperate grasp.

Taking charge of the situation, Livilla told him crisply, "Put her down."

"She has quite the nasty knock on her skull," Ives told Livilla. "Can you-?" He was both reluctant to set her down and desperate to do so, wilting like a lavender flower in the scorching sun, and stuck in an uncertain limbo without a forthcoming answer to a question he hadn't actually had the breath to ask. Jean helped him, taking her in his arms and easing her down to the ground while Ives doubled over to try and catch his breath.

"I'll see what I can do," Livilla assured him as she knelt next to the still woman. Her hands quickly went to Isabeau's head, her black eye turning white even as she closed it. "The fact she was still awake mere seconds ago is a good sign. I just hope-" Her voice trailed away, her brow furrowing as her hands began to glow the pure white that had appeared when Livilla had helped ease Isabeau's Joining all those months ago.

Ives waited tensely, peripherally aware of Jean coming to stand at his side now that Isabeau was still on the ground. Having taken away her armor and the better part of his own, Ives half expected a lecture about indecency, even despite the circumstances. Jean was downright militant about his beliefs, and Ives was the first to accuse him (inwardly, at least) of insecurity. "Could you take her after this?" he pleaded, hoping that - just maybe - he was wrong.

"Ah, if it is required." Jean _did_ look red, and he was most certainly uncomfortable, but perhaps the urgency of the situation had earned Ives a pass from reprimand. He cared for Isabeau, if not as more than a friend, and surely seeing her in such a state was more important than her undress.

In fact, so long as Ives didn't tell his brother that he hadn't taken the time to offer the dying horse mercy, he even hoped he might get out of this all without a lecture from anyone. Ah, but such was his life, to receive the reprimands of others - or at least, that's how it felt right now. He was certainly more accomplished in the realm of words and music than in physical feats. Certainly, in a different context he could lift a woman in his lap a moderate distance - repeatedly, if appropriate to the activity - but carrying someone, even a _much shorter_ someone, _that_ distance, _uphill,_ with a _broken finger,_ had taken its toll on his body. In short, he was miserable, and when Ives had been able to hand Isabeau off to Jean, he had done so all too gladly.

Yet Ives was still concerned enough that he lingered, waiting the several breathless minutes it took until Isabeau's eyes fluttered open before allowing himself a sigh of relief. The pain of fatigue had slowly drained from his leaden legs as he waited, a fatigue that seemed well worth the effort when Isabeau smiled weakly at Livilla. As great a relief as the sight was, it also tickled him when a light blush came to her cheeks as soon as Isabeau laid eyes on Jean. A tired chuckle escaped from the bard's lips when her brow furrowed and she asked, "How did you get your armor back on so quickly?"

The warrior's puzzled confusion was priceless. Ah, if only he knew! Well, perhaps _Ives'_ skull was only intact because he didn't. Livilla ignored it entirely, though, interrupting before Jean could speak. "Your head, how does it feel?" Her hands were working in Isabeau's hair, carefully feeling their way around beneath it.

"Hurts," Isabeau murmured, but her hand, when it moved, went to her leg, kneading and massaging. "And... I can't feel them." This time there was a tinge of fear in her voice, and Livilla's brow instantly drew into a frown.

Taking her hands quickly from Isabeau's head, Livilla leaned down and pushed her arms underneath Isabeau. "The old injury, I suspect." Her eye blazed white as she closed it and curtly ordered, "Don't move."

Ives exchanged a glance with Jean, his concern mirrored perfectly in his brother's face. It was Jean who knelt next to them, hand gently encompassing Isabeau's as a line furrowed his brow. "Old injury?" he asked softly.

"Childhood injury." Livilla's answer was just this side of curt as she shifted a bit to relocate her hands.

"Isabeau?" Jean asked softly.

After a brief glance at Livilla, Isabeau looked up at Jean with a wan smile. "My back was badly hurt when- when I fell as a child. I- It took a long time to heal." She gasped suddenly, and Ives saw her hand tighten around Jean's. "My toes- I can feel them again."

"That should do for now. It's badly bruised, but nothing is broken," Livilla said crisply as she took her hands out from under Isabeau, opening her eye to show black once more. "I'll need to look at it again once you have a bed, but for now I'm more worried about that head of yours." She looked at Jean. "I don't want her sitting in a saddle quite yet. Will you carry her to Arlesans?" Her hand settled on Isabeau's forehead as she bowed her head, concentrating.

It sounded like Isabeau would recover. With that knowledge, Ives felt secure enough to leave Jean alone with the girls to aid them. He stood, stretched carefully, and _cautiously_ forced his legs into motion. While he was sure they couldn't stay for the night, he needed to rest before he could even wrap his mind around climbing into a saddle. When he reached the small tree where Carrot had been hitched, he drew the bed roll off the horse's back, bringing it down with him to the grassy ground below.

It wasn't until several moments after he'd flattened out on his stomach and curled his arm around the bedroll that he even registered what he had seen. At first he peeked an eye, and then he finally raised his head again enough to confirm it: everything he'd left at the bottom of the gorge, both his own and Isabeau's equipment, was now in the pack on Carrot's back or at his feet. How Martin had been able to accomplish this... Ives shook his head, thoughts fogged, and gave up trying to figure it out. _Later..._

Even more disturbing was what had been _added:_ a pair of daggers sheathed together in one clip, artistically designed to be two halves of a whole. Ives had once owned a similar pair, but Martin had had taken them after the dance. _Ah, lala, apparently Martin had plans._ They were beautiful, exquisite, even, but they were _certainly_ not the ones he had once owned. _Artana and Jean would notice, and they would want to know from whence they came._ With a sigh of regret, Ives quickly buried them deep in his pack, then closed it firmly.

A note was pinned to the flap of his bag. With a frown, Ives reached out to tear the note from its pin. After the last several pictures, he was almost disappointed to see that on it were simply words, inscribed with an elegant hand.

_I am most disappointed. Apparently I did not make myself clear. We shall discuss the matter when next we meet._

He stared at the note, remembering all too well Martin's initial instructions to 'protect his angel' or suffer the consequences. Yet if he were close enough to gather the equipment, why had he not stepped in himself? Was it an aspect of his Game, or a mere circumstance of timing? Did Martin have magic at his disposal? Ives had no idea how closely Martin followed them, or if he had been distracted elsewhere in the battle, or if he had even chosen to participate. He hardly knew anything, save that he had more questions than answers.

Whatever the cause for Martin's apparent lack of intervention, it was proof that the man had indeed followed them... and that he was _watching._

"Ives?" He craned his neck to find Livilla standing nearby. "Isabeau is resting comfortably, so I thought to heal your injuries."

"Hmm? Oh, yes, my finger." It wasn't that it had stopped hurting, of course, merely that he'd blocked that pain out in favor of what had to be done. "How simply loutish of me to have forgotten, _mon fleur._ " Though he wished nothing more than to stay off of his feet, he eased himself from sitting to standing. Once he had accomplished that monumental feat, he offered his hand to her, bracing himself for the magic to wash over him.

Livilla stepped forward, taking his hand in her own. As her eye turned white and the chill invaded his body, she said softly, "Was the note from _him?"_

After a moment's hesitation, he chuckled wearily. "Sneak."

"Lout." Her eye dimmed to black as she lightly traced the line of his now healthy digit. "He's been in our camp at least twice so far," she murmured. "This much I know. I simply do not know what he _wants._ I sometimes wonder if he knows himself, or if he can want anything that his Master does not tell him to want. Still, there is little we can do at the moment to deal with him." With a shrug she dismissed Martin, her head craning to look behind her. "Isabeau's injuries are extensive, but she is stable. A good night's rest and more healing in the morning will set her to rights, but the loss of her horse will slow us down. Hopefully Arlesans will have at least one decent horse for sale."

Ives winced. The poor horse, as far as he knew, had not been put out of its misery, and he knew he would tend to that first, now that Livilla had revived him a bit. Still, its loss was certainly the lesser of the two he had faced. "Isabeau's armor was also damaged by the fall. We'll need a smith to sort it out, I think. Did Artana snatch everything of value in sight?"

Livilla's mouth twitched in a smile. "Less than she would have liked. One less horse means less hauling capacity."

"Ah, my poor, larcenous _amour!_ Unable to acquire items at her mere whim!" A grin was on his lips as Ives turned and left his comfortable recline to the past. His tasks were clearly not yet done, no matter _how_ he yearned to simply lie down and do nothing for a while. All the equipment Martin had left on the ground he began piling on Carrot. "Ah, well, at least we should have sufficient money for supplies, horse, and armor repair from what she _is_ able to carry - not to mention the very best of the dubious inns which Arlesans is sure to offer."

"We'll see," Livilla said. "Jean and Isabeau are settled on Ebony, and Jean's armor is distributed between my horse and Artana's. Artana is doing a last sweep for small valuables, and then we will go."

Taking up Carrot's reins, Ives fell into step beside Livilla as she turned to lead the way back to the others. "Isabeau will be fine, though?" he persisted.

The hesitation made him look sharply at her face, but it showed no anxiety. When she spoke, it was in a slow, thoughtful tone. "I would have preferred a single scope of injury - head or back alone - to concentrate upon, but as it is, her head is in the clear, and her back is... sufficiently healed." Her gaze fell to her hands, and it was a moment before she continued. "She sustained her injury in her youth the day her parents died, and it left her unable to walk for years. Yet she never gave up." Her eye flicked up to meet Ives' gaze. "She is one of the strongest people I know, Ives Durante. She will be fine." Her hand reached out and squeezed Ives' free hand briefly before retreating when she turned from him. "Make haste. I want to reach Arlesans sooner rather than later."

 _She would have to be strong,_ Ives mused. _She survived Martin's oppressive attention all those years and emerged still able to blush at a compliment from a man she admires. Strong, yes: much stronger than most would think to look at her._ "She is a warrior, _non?_ Whether she wields a weapon or a ... a needle, she is a fighter."

"I know," Livilla said quietly. "And she has not yet lost a battle."

"And a lively battle it would be, if she fought with a needle." Any further conversation was reduced to an apologetic smile when Artana called for Ives. "Coming, _amour!"_ Handing Carrot off to Livilla, he hurried as swiftly as his aching legs would allow to first check the gorge. This time he trotted down the fire-arrow-lit path rather than jump off the ledge, not wishing to risk another damaged finger. He found that the horse's struggles had ceased, a clean cut across her throat explaining the reason why. His brow furrowed, and he glanced around quickly. _Martin, perhaps?_ Curious that such as he would think to put an animal from its misery.

As Ives turned from the horse, a flicker of movement caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. Instinctively he looked at it, freezing when he saw a figure dressed in black standing further down the gorge. For a moment their eyes met, and even at this distance, Ives could see the cold rage in Martin's face. After a few silent moments, without a word or further action, the man turned and melted into the shadows.

Ives let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. _Ah, lala, suddenly more than my body is exhausted. I hope not every day is like this. I am far too fragile!_

"Ives!"

He jumped, admittedly, when Artana called to him, looking up to where Artana stood at the lip of the gorge, the smile very much forced onto his lips. _"Oui, amour?"_

"We are leaving. Livilla wants to get Isabeau to a bed as quickly as possible."

"Of course." Quickly he scurried back out of the gorge and headed towards Carrot. Once on his steed's back, he took up the rear of the party, Artana leading the way with a glowstone held up to light their way in the dark. Ives glanced at the sky, relieved to see no clouds covering the stars. With those visible, Artana would be able to easily take them to Arlesans.

As he grew closer to his brother's large black war horse, he heard the murmur of voices. Curiosity piqued, he spurred Carrot forward a bit more until he could hear them talking. Isabeau's voice sounded a touch dazed still, and Jean's bore that forced lightness he used when he wished to put others at ease. _Ah, but of course, he is as concerned as I for the little chérie._ And, perhaps, a _smidgen_ more, despite his self-proclaimed Chevalric honor...

"Such a beautiful name. Cateline." Isabeau was so very curious about Jean's dear departed wife that it tickled Ives, easily bringing a smile to his face. "Was it _coup de foudre?_ For you, I mean."

"Ah... love at first sight is a ... is a strong sensation, and perhaps it is ... not so strong as a slap," Jean said sheepishly, and Ives raised a hand to cover a snort of laughter. It earned him a glare, but Jean was undaunted. "She was ... beautiful. Not in the way Artana commands attention and grasps you with her mysterious nature, but … just, so … _easily_ attractive. A year my senior. Her dowry had been refused by another suitor, but it made no difference to me. When first we met I approached her in a ... most inappropriate way. I was a different man then, and her beauty was so ... so easy." Ives saw the struggle Jean had with his words, and heard the frustrated noise before he tried again after a shake of his head. "That... makes no sense. I mean to say, she needed no adornment. Just to smile, and I would stop whatever I was doing to look."

"A woman of rare worth," Isabeau murmured. After a deep breath, she began to chant a verse, one Ives had heard before, though never from Isabeau: " _'A woman of beauty unadorned, a woman of heart pure as gold. A woman of love and light so fair, that all the bards sang of her of old.'"_

Ives urged Carrot forward a bit. "Not the first time I have heard that," he said, inserting himself into the conversation. "A certain lout you know once used that very same verse to describe a beloved sister-in-law, _non?"_

As Jean's chuckle answered that comment, a thought struck Ives, solidly enough to make him lose track of the conversation for a moment. A sudden vision emphasized the parallel between his clumsy attempts to keep Isabeau awake by emulating Jean and, all those years ago, donning his brother's armor to sing a love song in Jean's guise for Cateline. _I've done it once before, after all,_ he thought wryly.

Though too tired to do more than smile wanly at the connection, he did have to wonder if Isabeau mistaking him for Jean was more than a simple misunderstanding brought on by a bump on her head. _Desire to see me that way? Apparently I am better at courting women as Jean Durante than you are. Well, no surprise there, really._ And now, Isabeau had invoked a verse to describe Cateline, but Ives could not help but wonder if Jean saw that the verse applied to Isabeau herself.

He broke from his reverie, hearing Jean as he said, "-gave me her ribbon as a favor. I was certain, a man of seventeen and no doubts in anything, that I could win the joust at one of the Empress' banquets. I do not know if I would have, but the lance caught me in the arm."

"And like a sparkling, divine spirit, when he woke from his pained, fevered sleep, she was above him, weeping demurely-" Ives broke in, attempting to provide the appropriate level of embellishment.

Jean coughed. "Mm, no. Again, she hit me when I first woke, and scolded me for being foolish. You know that, brother."

"Sounds like I would have liked her," Isabeau said with approval. "A woman should always be willing to correct a man's mistakes and explain to him why _she_ never makes any."

Ives chuckled as Jean laughed. A movement caught his attention, and he saw Livilla watching them, perhaps to monitor Isabeau's status as they got closer to the town. _Not long now,_ Ives hoped fervently. _We were not that far out from the town when we found the trail of the bandits. The best place to catch weary travellers, and just out of the law's reach._

Isabeau sighed, letting her head fall against Jean's shoulder. "Mother and Father were like that," she murmured softly. "The room would just light up when they looked at each other. They were so happy..." She yawned. "Someday, I'd like that..."

Ives could not help but wonder what was going through his brother's mind at the moment. Judging from the way Jean was looking down at his little passenger, it had certainly grabbed his attention, if nothing else.

"My mother always used to sing that verse to me when I went to sleep," Isabeau continued, voice losing strength. "I liked the second part, too. It was my father to me, you see: _A man of honor perfectly sure, a man with a heart of steel pure. A man to protect and hold you close, that all he loved would feel assured."_ She yawned again. "I'm sorry, I can't seem to..."

Her voice trailed away in mid-sentence, and her head tipped back slightly.

Jean frowned and looked at Livilla, a crease between his brows. "Is it... all right to let her sleep?"

"She is no longer in danger due to the injury on her head," Livilla assured him. "It is her back I am concerned about, and that requires rest and more healing once I am able."

Ives frowned and scrutinized Livilla. In the dim light of Artana's glowstone, he couldn't see if she was more pale than usual, but the fact she had even admitted she _couldn't_ do something was cause for concern. "Are you feeling weak?"

"We should concentrate on getting to town," Livilla said, looking forward. "I'm sure some rest will benefit us all a great deal."

"Ah, lala, that is most certainly one of the truer things I have heard this night," Ives chuckled. For a few moments, he contented himself with watching the way Jean's glance would dart down to Isabeau and then snap back up, landing on Artana's back. _Hmm, did we feel the flap of a hummingbird's wings tonight,_ mon frère _?_ After a while, however, he frowned and nudged Carrot to the head of the pack. "Artana... you've... been quiet."

"I have." Artana agreed. "I have no resentment for Jean's mate. I am inspired by his demeanor when considering her passing. I am not threatened by a memory... I am just..."

" _Amour,_ you don't have to say it. I'm sure he's watching you as well," Ives spoke quietly, trying to comfort her. Few outside of Artana's closest circle knew the circumstances of her Joining the Wardens, much less her life prior to it. Jean and he were privy to more than any other, of course, including the first man in Artana's life, the one she had loved... the one she had, in her own mind, abandoned.

Thus it was a surprise when Livilla spoke up in a quiet tone that nevertheless carried. "Do not return to that moment, Commander. It does neither you nor his memory any honor to dwell upon regret." She nodded towards Jean. "As he said of Cateline: celebrate the memory, celebrate the meaning. Life is too precious to waste on regret."

And she spoke no more. For a while, no one did.


	11. Calm Before the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ives Durante and his companions take a break to rest in Arlesans. While there, Ives learns that it is truly difficult to find peace when eyes are always upon you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to our fantastic beta reader, ShebasDawn! Also, very special thanks to DoorbellSpider for the fantastic art made for this chapter!

 

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Ives pushed the door to the inn open, a wave of heat and sound welcoming him into the interior. Though it claimed to be the best inn within the boundaries of Arlesans, it was still rather inadequate by his standards. The common room was dark and smoky, the floor was covered in rushes that were changed irregularly, and he'd had to knock a few heads together after their owners had made certain comments about the 'knife-ear' while Artana arranged for their rooms, though he'd only done so because she had been too busy to take care of them personally. Still the beds were clean, the food better than expected, and the inn had enough rooms to give them all their own privacy so that Isabeau could rest properly.

Well... _four_ rooms, at any rate. It was up to Artana which of the twins had a bed to themselves, and Ives had already put his own belongings in the room with the smaller bed. Perhaps he could have given more of a fight or even suggested Jean convince _her_ to request Ives' company, but Ives knew it wasn't so simple. Though Ives had no feelings for Isabeau beyond those of the best of friends and comrades in arms, he had nevertheless _jumped over a cliff_ for her - in the middle of a battle, no less - and carried her uphill in the dark. While Artana would probably have punished _Jean_ with such an action by ravishing him thoroughly and laying claim, she had long since learned the best silent reprimand for _Ives_ was a cold bed.

As he crossed the common room, he caught sight of Livilla out of the corner of his eye. She was sitting at a table close to the fireplace, a seat too warm for most patrons. With a mug between her hands, she seemed perfectly content to simply watch the diverse patrons in the room with her single eye. Veering to join her, Ives heaved a huge sigh as he settled himself into a chair next to her.

"And why so great a sigh, lout? Does it have something to do with our sleeping arrangements? Are you pining for your princess already?" Calmly she raised her mug and sipped at the contents, her eye returning to survey the room. "Maybe she'll let you sleep on a blanket at the foot of the bed."

"Ah, but I would gladly bay at the moon in her name! Come to think of it, on some occasions, I've had to scratch behind my ears for her. Or, well, because of where she'd dragged me." He shuddered, clearly thinking of some manner of louse just by the theatrics that followed. Ives grimaced, rubbing his arms and scratching his head before finally moving beyond it. "However, I digress, as in _this_ case, I have just returned from the blacksmith, and it was destined not to be my night with him, either. The smith had already cooled his forge, and no matter what I promised he refused to relight it. He did agree, however - after much persuasion and coin - to move her armor to the top of his list tomorrow, but it will not be a simple job. So we are stuck here another day and, more than likely, night - and that is assuming I can find a suitable mount for Isabeau tomorrow, as well." He slid down in the seat, slouching enough to rest his feet on the chair across from them. "I don't suppose you're in the mood for a more serious discussion, by chance?"

"How serious?" Her eyebrow rose eloquently. From this perspective, with the light behind her and the flames dancing across her face, she appeared more shadowed than scarred. It was easier to see the underlying bone structure rather than the damage done to the flesh, and her empty socket simply looked... closed, not as if it were lacking something within. "Will we need privacy?"

"I can't imagine the topic I wish to discuss would mean a thing to anyone here. At least, not one who would scarcely care a fig towards our efforts at privacy, _non_? So, I say, here is that very one's most recent gift to me. Well, not to _me_ , per say, but - bah, sometimes words are not needed." He produced the amulet that was much akin to hers, save for the varied paw on its silver face. "I've touched it at least twice, so I don't believe it harmful. It does like to growl, if admitting so doesn't bring into question my sanity."

Her eye widened, and she reached for it quickly, pausing for but a moment before touching it. "Please tell me Artana didn't touch it," she said quietly, glancing around as if to make sure the Dalish woman wasn't nearby.

"No, but why? I've kept it to myself, actually. Would it have... harmed her?" With his brow furrowed, he eagerly awaited clarification. He could handle the shrapnel of Martin's game, but he didn't want anyone - particularly not Artana - to take a shard in his name.

"Not physically, no, but it could have _influenced_ her. Possibly. It's... Well, it's an amulet of one of the gods of the Dalish. She probably wouldn't have touched it if she saw the mark, honestly." Carefully she placed it on table before her, staring at it intently. "Martin stole this from me the first time we... met." Her mouth twisted. "Have you seen his face? Have you seen that lovely scar at the corner of his mouth? That was _my_ gift to him, when he stole this. These two amulets and I were taken from my people by the Magisters, and I managed to escape with both of them, thanks to a little help." She glanced around the room, obviously hesitant, and bit her lip. "Perhaps... a bit more privacy. I feel odd talking about some things when too many shadows are about."

"As you wish, _chèrie._ Where do you feel is safe?" Ives popped from his chair without a complaint, then dipped behind hers to help pull it out before she could manage it on her own. "I admit I'm all atingle with curiosity now."

Without a word, she took his hand and led the way, throwing glances over her shoulder. "My room should be nice and bright - I had them build the fire to its height." When she reached a door with a bright line of light showing through the crack under it, she opened it and pushed him in. Thanks to the large fire in the fireplace, her room was indeed day-bright, the shadows kept as far away as possible. Slipping in behind him, Livilla shut the door, then placed her hand on it. A small pulse of blue rippled over the wood as she turned to Ives. "Since he's following us, I'd prefer to take extra precaution rather than simply _hope_ he is not interested at the moment _._ "

Ives glanced towards the door and mentally extended the view to his room. Wrapped up in his bedroll were the exquisitely wrought daggers Martin had so pointedly left for him _again_ after the battle with the bandits. For Martin to have come up with a pair of such rare design _and_ found a way to make them _superior_ to the ones replaced, questions were most certainly being raised. "Oh, I find him relatively harmless, depending on his mood," Ives supposed, looking back again at Livilla. "Not that I've often seen him, of course. Perhaps he just had a little free time on an ... errand, or whatever it is he does. I try not to let it bother me, honestly - it's the only _immediate_ power he has over us. So, the amulets?"

Her eye narrowed as she regarded him, mouth settling into a compressed line. Finally, with a tight shrug, she shook her head and walked to the bed. "Fine. The amulets." Taking out the amulet she'd tucked into her pocket, she held it up and dangled it by the cord. The faintest hint of wind whispered through the room. "Do you know what animal this mark represents?"

Ives grinned. "Ah, lala, the tracks I am familiar with occur on cobblestone or in silk. I am at a bit of loss when it comes to soil and trees-"

"Wolf," Livilla said abruptly. She dropped the amulet on the bed, and the sound of wind faded. "The amulet around my neck is a bear's paw, and that one is from a wolf. Our tales claim each was imprinted by the Gods themselves when they were forged. Has Artana told you anything about the Gods of our People?"

"Ah, a bit, only a bit... Wolf, wolf…" Ives searched through his memory, trying to recall Artana's patient - at first, anyway - lectures about her people's gods. "I would venture to guess Pen-harel?" That didn't sound _quite_ right, so he shrugged, expression sheepish. "I only know a little, I admit."

Her eyebrow rose, as if she hadn't expected even that much knowledge. "Very good, lout. Fen'Harel. The Dreadful Wolf." She looked down again, scrutinizing the amulet. "The Tevene were convinced that the amulets somehow evoked the power of the Gods without _involving_ the Gods. When they couldn't make the amulets work, they resorted to more extreme measures. And, being Magisters, that meant blood and pain." She paused, frowning. "Perhaps it would be better to show you." Scooting away from the amulet, she reached to the bottom of her shirt and pulled it up in one smooth motion.

Her torso was criss-crossed with scars. An eye experienced with weapons would recognize some of them - long, thin marks left by a thin blade; puckered marks left by a serrated edge; shiny scars indicative of burns. The marks even moved over her breasts, leaving almost no area of her skin untouched by the damage. In fact, there was a disturbing similarity in some ways between the scars she bore and the ones which laced Martin's body, a comparison he knew would bear further consideration... later. Livilla pointed to a mark between her breasts: a distinct mark of a wolf's paw. "I have three of these. This is the easiest one to show you, since I refuse to shave my head again."

Ives wasn't quite sure how to react. He'd shown her his own scars, but there was a certain difference between when a man shucked his shirt and when a woman did the same. He was still studying the quickly offered flesh even as it was taken away just as fast when she lowered her hem once more. "Three?" If one was there, the other on the head, and the third difficult to show... "Ah, lala, do continue." He blinked, forcing himself to restore eye contact. Livilla didn't need to know quite how intrigued he was.

After tugging one more time at the bottom of her shift, she laid her hand gently on the bed next to the amulet. "When the amulet and its mark comes into contact with your skin, it... it makes a link to the Fade, one that is incorruptible. When I was a child, I was- My Clan had to- " She looked aside for a second with a sigh. "I... I suppose you don't need to actually know that part. The point is that the Magisters thought to create a permanent link to the Fade, similar to a Dreamer, which would give them the power of the gods. They, of course, dismissed the notion that the Creators and Fen'Harel could be real, so they sought the answer to greater power through other means."

"Well, they are rather notorious for taking their power from others, _non?"_ Ives shifted uneasily, the spectre of blood magic and the reputation of the Tevinter Magisters juxtaposing themselves in his mind with Livilla's scars. He wanted to get nearer to her, to... well, to _comfort_ her, but most regretfully he had not the relationship with her that he did with Isabeau. "It would appear you have a rather intimate knowledge of the reason for such rumors."

"They didn't kill me," she observed with a small shrug. His sharp eyes, however, noticed the tension in her shoulders and the way her eye skittered away from meeting his gaze. "They changed me. They were very excited about the amulets when I told them what the marks meant, since to them it was proof of past ability to call up vast magic with a trinket. Since our gods never existed, by their logic, it must mean those elves who claimed to use the power of our gods had done so through magic and chicanery alone." Her mouth twisted. "They learned differently when the first Magister to wear _that_ amulet," she pointed at the one which lay upon the bed, "grew fur and howled at the moon. After that, they decided to experiment with the amulets _through_ me." She held her hand up, a flame waking in the cupped palm as her eye glowed white, then both flame and white faded. "They had mixed results."

He stepped closer, the strength in her spell aiding his battle of restraint. "It never ceases to amaze me how resilient you are, nor to perplex me how misguided the Tevene can be. You remind me quite a bit of Artana, you know, body and soul." A slight smile pulled at his lips, the sort that felt more serious than his usual grins, showing that by some miracle he could be a considerate lout indeed when he desired it. "I was always enthralled by her - ah, your - religion, even if my retention is perhaps lacking in the matter of names. In the end, all a man truly has is his beliefs. We can hope for rebirth or a place to call our own in the Fade, but there's so little certainty we might call fact. I for one say I've no right to claim your gods don't exist if I want to hold any," _of my waning,_ "hope for mine."

She looked up at him, eye wide and lips parted. For a moment, her expression softened, and she hesitantly reached out and laid her hand on his wrist, though she could only meet his gaze for a moment before her eye dropped to contemplate where their skin touched. "A man can be judged by his actions as well as his beliefs. It is... the space between the two where I find my own judgment faulty." Her gaze moved to the wall behind the bed, and Ives remembered that Isabeau's room lay on the other side. She sighed. "It is only one of the many ways in which she is by far my better," she whispered.

Abruptly she pulled her hand away, using it to sweep up the amulet from where it lay on the bed and taking it to the pack resting near the bed. "I only wanted to show you what happens when the amulets are used incorrectly. When used for their original intent, they can save lives. When abused or misused..." She shrugged, kneeling to rummage through her pack. "I'll keep it with my things. I ward them normally, so it won't seem odd to have a bit of magic around my pack if... if someone is curious."

"Well, now _I'm_ curious," Ives countered, and for more than one reason. He followed her to the bedside and let his hand rest on her shoulder this time, all the closer from the last. "And for the record might I say your judgement is always wise, if a touch jaded, _chèrie,_ as one would expect of a woman so wrongfully treated. But I ... cannot resist the urge to hear more for another moment. _Save_ lives? How so?" His opposite hand reached in to rest atop hers, keeping it from condemning the medallion to a place he could not retrieve it, at least until he'd heard enough to satisfy his wonder about whether or not it might aid his current predicaments.

Her hand quivered, ever so slightly. "It is at the God's will. I asked Dirthamen to help with Artana when I prepared _my_ amulet, the one with the mark of the bear, for her. It is, in part, his wish that sustains me and keeps the Fa- the taint at bay." She turned her head slightly, tilting it towards him. "This one, though, with the mark of the Wolf... He is capricious. The Dalish only remember him as a traitor, though they do not know the whole story. Yet, if he decided to intervene, I do not think he could _cure_ Artana, even were she inclined to take up his sign. They work on a different level, one that is tied to the soul, not the body. They can ease physical symptoms, but not heal them completely, or I would not look like-" Her mouth snapped shut over the rest of the words, and she looked away. "I am sorry, _emma sa'lath._ I wish it could save her, too."

A capricious traitor? Perhaps this wasn't a question about Artana after all. A couple of victories had occurred today, though, and he looked more pointedly at her than the pendant, letting his arm slide about her more comfortably now that she'd allowed him into her personal space. He had a hundred friendly hugs to offer her on backlog at this point. "I'm curious, do your gods communicate with lowly heathens? I wonder that I might study the amulet a little longer now that you've told me this. I know he isn't _my_ god by any means, and I'm sure I'm but a gnat to one so terrible to behold, but... I feel obliged to try, somehow. I feel hopeful. He has growled at me, after all. A far cry better than the nasty bite I've felt for other curiosities," the last part he murmured, well aware that Livilla hadn't quite been privy to his adventure with her amulet.

"They talk to whomever they wish." Her voice cracked a little, and she stopped to clear her throat. She shifted slightly away from him, though she didn't move out of his reach. "What... what would you ask him? Or would it just be... hope?"

"I ... would want to know ... I don't know. More. Like any conversation, I must listen and see what is offered to know where it would lead. I haven't the highest expectations, but that hardly deters me from trying. He seems the sort to sympathize with a pariah. Perhaps I would explore that connection." A statement true for Artana, but intended for another. "Is that ill-advised? It is said the Maker doesn't respond to prayers because they are often begged in selfish intent. I imagine I might be treading those same waters by hoping for a response at all?"

"The Maker doesn't answer prayers because-" She stopped herself. "I... I probably am not the best authority on the Chantry or their gods." Her chin dropped as her eye fell on where his hand rested on hers. "I... I don't know what to advise you. Fen'Harel... When the Magisters used his amulet on me, he-" Again she stopped, and her hand curled around the amulet. "He might... ask for something in return," she whispered.

Every little thing she'd just said had demanded his curiosity, his right brow unable to raise any little bit higher. Though a thousand questions might have popped to mind to fill the gaps she'd left in her hesitations, he knew guessing would be a fool's errand. Instead he focused on the one thing he might actually get a response to and let his hand close around hers. "Fen'Harel asked you for something, then?"

The silence stretched between them for so long Ives began to wonder if she would respond. Finally he heard her take a shuddering breath as she turned to look at him. The light from the fireplace reflected off some moisture in her eye, but her expression and voice were calm when she answered, "Yes. A... relatively small price, or so I thought." She shrugged. "It is different for everyone." Slowly her hand turned over, her fingers lightly wrapping around his as she offered the amulet to him. "I... I cannot stop you from choosing the same path I did. Just... be cautious, _emma sa'lath."_

Clearly, he'd have to whittle at this mystery awhile longer before he got any kind of satisfying response. Ives finally drew his hand away when she loosened her grasp, his own eyes still carefully studying her one. "... I am always cautious. And always curious. A fascinating combination, may I just say. I'm curious even this precise moment, in fact. You're going to tell me what _sa'lath_ means, aren't you? Hmm?"

"I-" With a seeming effort, she tore herself from eye contact with him and looked back down at her pack. "It means 'lout'." Occupying her attention and her hands with closing and warding the bag, she said, "What else could it mean?"

"I claim to be no linguist, but I do feel as though Artana has - on occasion - referred to Jean or I as _emma'lath,_ so... Ah, well, I've likely tormented you for enough answers in one day. Lout it is. Shall I leave you be? As I recall, Jean's evening activities had been interrupting your sleep. He seems dreadfully _frustrated_ lately, doesn't he?" Mischievous twinkle in his baby blues, Ives slid the amulet into his pocket - where it had begun - and took a step back. "I'll let my loutish little self out."

"Obviously Artana just doesn't want to call you lout to your faces in a manner where it would hurt your delicate little feelings," Livilla said. "And don't mind the door if it bites you - it's the least you deserve." She turned to the bed and lay down on it, facing the wall. "Don't wake me tomorrow. I need to catch up on my rest."

Ives chuckled, taking all he'd learned with him from the room with a smile on his face that helped to guard him against the troubles lurking in the shadows. "Sleep well, _chèrie_." The door was tugged shut, but he didn't immediately head down the hall. He lingered there and drew in a deep breath, calculating through the day and where he might go in the night. Admitting he was just too exhausted to not sleep tonight, he began down the hall towards his lonely bedroom, hand tapping a rhythm on the amulet tucked in his pocket as he moved down the hall.

Thankfully there was enough reflex in him to dance back away from an opening door and a curtain of blond hair. He was still blinking as the man turned to apologize. "Oh! Oh, sorry, darling."

"Not a problem," Ives said, his tone a little bland as his mind turned around an odd feeling of _deja vu_.

"I think I'm seeing double!" the unusual man said while looking beyond Ives, and the bard turned to see his brother stepping out of the room next to Livilla's.

When he turned back, a gentle chuckle in his throat and words on the tip of his tongue, he found the blond man was gone and the door he'd come out of shut. That made him hesitate, trying to figure out what had happened while simultaneously checking his pockets to be sure it hadn't been an odd attempt to pickpocket him.

"You should go to bed," Jean said, approaching his brother. "Artana would probably like to sleep soon."

Ives turned again, all his effects in place, save for his certainty on quite what was going on. "Ah, no no, I'll take the small room." His eyes shifted for a moment to the door Jean had exited, then again settled on the warrior across from him. "I need to approach Artana carefully after making our precious Princess a tinge green on the road earlier. Besides, I'm overdue to rest a little better. Sadly the beautiful dance of a hummingbird and a succulent flower does not involve much sleeping."

"You ... have not been sleeping well on this trip," Jean challenged. Ives watched as his brother's eyes shifted this time to his little isolated room. "There was something tucked in your bed roll earlier." In the next moment, Ives knew where Jean was going with this. Jean's gaze settled on Ives' hip, devoid of a holster for a pair of unique daggers that had always been a prized possession from a faraway city. "Why did you leave them behind?"

"I didn't want to lose them?" Ives offered playfully, knowing any answer he could have given - even, in this case, the truth - wouldn't have been a satisfactory response. "Ah, _mon frère_ , you do tend to have such good questions. This one, I think, I would prefer to not answer until I've slept, if it is all the same to you. If you're going to worry yourself with being meddlesome, why don't you meddle a good word in with Artana for me, _oui?_ "

Jean exhaled through his nose as he shook his head, and Ives couldn't miss the disappointment in his face. "Between us, in the important things, I am not used to being the last informed.'

"Well, when I choose to inform anyone at all, you shall be the first to know," Ives assured him, reaching out to give his shoulder a firm clap. "Rest well, and keep her happy. _Bonsoir, mon frère_." With a spectacularly unnecessary flourish and considerable tilt into a bow, Ives took three steps backwards before turning and retreating towards his room and its bed - even if it _was_ lonely.

Then again, as Ives paused behind the closed door, he had to wonder if it really was all that lonely. Even the quickest of scans showed a half-dozen things out of place, from the subtle touch of his bag being at a slightly different angle, to trinkets he left by the bed being slightly out of place or reordered, to the extremely blatant placement of his new daggers right on top of his pillow. Martin had clearly stopped in, and now the reminder was difficult to ignore - he'd be sleeping with an audience tonight, and most likely _had_ been, every night Martin could stop in since the dance in Val Royeaux.

Somehow, that didn't bode well with Ives' chances of getting a good night's rest. Resigning himself to it much as he had the lonely room, he moved forward to fetch the blades so that he could hide them again in his bedroll. He had to clear the pillow if he wanted to plant his face in it, after all, but more importantly his clever Dalish tracker had to be kept from knowing they had company on their trip.

.~^~.

The next day, Ives whistled softly as he returned to the inn after his midmorning visit to the blacksmith. Successfully charming his way into a lower price was a victory, even if he called in a trump by mentioning that the armor was for a beautiful warrior _woman_ , a prospect that had intrigued the burly man enough that he'd promised a break in the cost of labor if she would come herself to pick it up later that day upon its completion. Since he was fairly certain he could persuade Isabeau to cooperate, after a few hours of Livilla's special white-eyed attention this morning, he felt almost buoyant. Livilla had smiled at him this morning, Jean had smiled at Isabeau, and Artana had... well, at least glanced at Ives without frowning during breakfast. _Tiny steps along the way,_ non?

As he turned a corner, he suddenly felt something tug at the fringe of his hair. Someone next to him staggered and fell, clutching at something in their neck.

"Maker!" Ives cursed, turning to see what had been done, his fine mood extinguished. He had a pretty good idea _who_ and _what_ as far as motives, but the affected party might not have yet bled out, and Martin could be dealt with later. He checked the body, trying to see what he hid under his tightened hand.

A man ran up and knelt beside him. "Maker, what happened? Is he all right?" Dressed in the clothes of a common workman, he helped Ives pry the hand, which spasmed oddly, from its death grip. Below the twitching fingers he found a small dart, placed with perfection into the jugular of the victim. " _Maker's breath!_ Murder in the streets!" He turned to look at Ives, brown eyes wide. "Did you see who did it?"

 _Brown eyes._ Ives relaxed slightly. "Sadly no, my friend. I was hoping to save his life, but it seems quite impossible." Ives sighed, gesturing down a road he knew the dart did indeed _not_ come from. "It must have been that direction, the way he fell. Perhaps the guards can find who is responsible."

Face set, the man nodded. "I'll go alert them. Thank you, ser." He stood and hurried away, leaving Ives kneeling next to the fallen body.

"Hmmmm, such a pity," a voice said close to his ear, and in the next moment a soft kiss landed upon it. "Still, he died with little pain, and with such artistry." A hand, scarred and slender, reached past Ives and shut the man's staring eyes. "'Tis a beautiful thing, to watch life flee its host. So _ephemeral_ and tenuous." Ives felt the breath move to his neck, though to his relief the lips remained _away_. "So, are you well, _mon ami?"_

"I would be better, I admit, if you would find a way to contact me that did not involve the death of an innocent bystander, hm?" Ives stood, taking nothing from the corpse. Bandits were one thing, but this man might had done nothing wrong. "It can make more than just the head droop in a man like me... We wouldn't want that, would we? Ah, lala, of course not." Sliding his thumbs into the waistband of his pants, Ives continued down the road so he wouldn't have to dally with the guards. "I daresay with your calling cards left so plainly in the open, you want the group to know you are following us. Why _is_ that, I wonder?"

"Ah, _so so_ , my dear friend," Martin said, casually falling into step beside him, arm touching his. "To which group do you refer? The one I follow, or the one which follows you - at least, until I decide to intervene, as I did with _that_ 'poor' fellow." He whistled a long, low note. "Those Tevene - so _persistent_ , no?" With a sudden move, he hooked his arm around Ives' elbow and steered him to a small café with lovely little tables and chairs set up under an awning to protect its patrons from the sun. "Come, let us share a drink, my friend. The wines of the local vineyards are quite famous, so I understand."

Settling down into a chair, Martin signaled the waiter, obviously expecting Ives to follow suit. He looked up when Ives did not immediately sit. "Would you prefer your lecture now, or in front of your lovely Commander, hmm? Some deep, dark night, when you are all alone, out far away from any other aid... or here, in the sunlight, and surrounded by innocent, happy people." The jovial mask fell momentarily from his face, showing a moment of fury before resetting to the carefree look to which had been affecting. "Come, come, my friend, your choice."

Ives chuckled slightly to hide his uneasiness, a smirk on his face. _This was not meant to be simple_ , he reminded himself, taking a chair in his hand and turning it around. He repositioned it, leaving it close to Martin, and sat in it backwards, his arms crossed about the top of the back. He was close enough that his leg rested against Martin's thigh, and he allowed it to dig in slightly as he adjusted himself in the chair. "No, no, friend. My hesitation has nothing to do with your… hobbies, or apparent jealousy of Artana. I wondered why the Tevene needed to _die_ , for surely a good enough scare would have set him off our path."

Ives sighed just in time for the waiter to approach. "Something dark and rich, please. A decanter, not merely a glass. That would be lovely, thank you." Allowing Martin a moment for his request of a much lighter wine, Ives only continued when the waiter had left. "Where was I? Oh, _oui, oui_. Your terrible defensiveness. Such a face that was! I know the thought of sharing is so very hard to some people, but it just breaks my heart to hear all these nasty little threats. Can't we just have a friendly conversation?"

"Threats? Did I ever threaten your pretty little elf? Ah, no, _mon ami,_ it is not I who failed in their duty, is it? I have already killed more than you know, all for the safety of your little elf... and my angel." At these words, his mask fell from his face once more. "So terrible, to see a loved one fall, or almost fall, in battle. Her mother so dearly wanted her to never bear the blade, to never worry about an arrow from an enemy... And I, my greatest failure was to unwillingly contribute to her attaining that dream."

He leaned forward, eyes intent, his voice dropping low. "I have warned Jean, and he now knows, on a _familial_ level, what the consequences will be if I lose my family. I merely wish to... _emphasize_ the importance of my angel's safety, _mon ami_." Leaning back, he smiled. "As much as you are, mmm, how shall I say it, _most_ intriguing in the hunt, and certainly present more of a challenge for certain _predilections_ of mine than dear Isabeau, I will not hesitate to act should such as occurred yesterday happen more... _terminally._ "

Martin fell silent as the server returned with their wine, carelessly throwing some royals to the man. After they were alone once more, he held up his wineglass, looking at the light refract in the pale _rosette_ within. "It is my tragedy that I cannot protect her during all my waking and sleeping hours. It will be _yours_ if you and yours do not do it for me." He drained the glass, heaving a sigh of delight. "Ah, a most _excellent_ vintage, my friend. Pity you like the darker side of life too much, _non?"_

Ives poured his own glass while Martin was talking, brimming it rather full before taking it to his lips. It was marvelous wine, that was true... he just knew he'd need it for reasons other than taste. "Mm..." With the bard's turn on the board complete, he put his already half-empty glass aside, his hand propping his cheek as he looked into mismatched eyes. "I think you worry too much, my curious friend. I'm quite relaxed myself. I have no intention to let a friend die. Though... it is heartening, I think," he added, shifting in his chair as he brought his glass up again. "Your inconsistencies are always fascinating." _Particularly the ones where a cold, uncaring man would turn the world upside down for someone to protect..._

"Bah, I'm so full of digressions this day. I think what it comes to is that I would say we're quite different. You … see problems as things to end. I see them as things to work beyond. I'd be ever so appreciative if you stop considering my niece and nephews pawns in your leverage, though. They're quite near and dear to my own heart. In fact, you might say I'm jealous of my brother. And now you know more than most." He looked to his glass and raised it again, taking a short sip. "Mm, but-" He raised his other hand, pointer finger extended upwards, "I must admit you do seem to be good at what you do. I just still have absolutely no grasp on why you'd waste your talents on it. I must be old, and these new ways beyond me. I just always thought to let a person live once you'd taken them out of the picture was so much more … well, it's poetic justice, isn't it? The heart of the Game. Is the Court so different now? Or is this all for your … mysterious benefactor, whomever it is?"

Martin set his glass down on the table perhaps a trifle more firmly than was good for it, but his eyes never wavered from the bright blue of the man sitting near him. "Ah, but you have known trust, no? To trust others and be trusted by them. Some of us have not had... the luxury." Martin handed his empty glass to a passing server, waving three fingers at him. "Also, you assume I act of my own accord entirely, or that I am, in fact, a bard acting within their conventions, and not an agent mimicking them to gain access to a closed system." He smiled as the server brought a bag to him. "Ah, here it is." Taking some gold from his pocket, he poured it into the man's hands. "My gratitude for holding that trifle for me." Ives was pouring another glass of wine.

Returning his attention to Ives, he scrutinized the other man for a while, green eye narrowed slightly. "The Game is a distraction to such as I and my Master, a thing of very little concern when our goals are larger than Orlais." Pushing the package towards Ives, he said, "Another gift, though you are cruel enough to spurn my last one. Do not worry, _mon ami_ , you need not do more than look once at this one. It is merely a statement of my.. _regard_ for you and your companions, one in particular." He held up a hand. "No, no, don't open it now, wait until you are alone and can savor it fully." He stood and threw some coins on the table but found a hand dipping into his waistband enough to pull him back to the seat. "Ah, it is something more... intimate you seek, then?"

Ives chuckled. "That, I'm not so certain I'd handle so well having been in the saddle most of a week now." His face and tone sobered - a word he'd wished to leave behind with the wine. "No, I've a much more serious mention: I'm just not going to let you leave with misconceptions in the air. Much as you have no idea where our final destination lies, the others have no idea that I've allowed you to shadow us. Now - if I used the daggers you gave me without consideration for the intelligence of the others, who would quickly realize they weren't there when the trip began, they might know what only I currently do. Artana is quite intelligent, as, indeed, is Jean - believe it or don't. One or the other would notice, and then questions would raised that would very quickly hinder your access to me."

Silence was his answer: silence and a stare that did not waver, even when Martin's glass rose to his lips for another sip.

Taking that to mean that Martin at least acceded the point, Ives moved to another topic, softening any potential barbs of rejection and aiming to move past that piercing silence. "So, yes, as I say, it would be a dangerous thing indeed to have that gift be seen. We have this new addition to our little ... Ah, what is a collection of horses? Is it in fact a herd?" After a moment, Ives shook his head at the absurdity and uselessness of that particular question, then waved it away with his hand. "Well, suffice to say, the only suitable horse we've found is a male that sadly does not play well with others. I'll lend Carrot to dear Isabeau as he is at least well-behaved when not stabled near a mare, and volunteer myself to ... fight with riding a most unbridled midnight stallion. For the life of me, it seems he has no desire to relax and enjoy the ride. I am certain with tensions so high from uncomfortable rides, the reaction to your gift would be most explosive." Finished talking, he tipped back the last of that second glass, wishing its warmth would go on and spread. Alas, he might not get relief until this conversation had progressed a bit further.

Martin leaned forward, his mismatched eyes narrowed with scrutiny as his hand settled lightly on the bard's arm. The intimate gesture caught Ives off-guard, but he forced himself to submit to the touch without comment or complaint. "Perhaps you are right," Martin murmured. "I shall strive to provide more _appropriate_ gifts, next time - and bestow them in a more suitable and subtle manner." His hand reached up and touched Ives' ear, slowly tracing the line of his jaw before his thumb rubbed gently over the man's lips. "Your lips, they say these things most seductively, _mon ami._ Tragic that I cannot lead you elsewhere without-" Snapping his hand back, he sat back in the chair. "Be that as it may, your precious little ones are safe from me, _mon ami_. I... I would not stoop so low, no, unless-" He looked away, watching the passersby. "Isabeau will never have children, _non?_ It is impossible for Wardens, is it not?"

Ives had been incredibly patient with Martin's roaming hand, even offering an upwards curl to his lips once his thumb brushed the lower one. "Hmm. You know of our Joining, somehow, but you don't … seem to know very much else about Wardens, do you?"

"I-" He paused. "As I have said, Wardens are... _exhilarating_ in the hunt, but sadly I have found them remarkably close-lipped once caught. Unless they have reason to leave the Order. Then I find them quite... talkative." He glanced at Ives. "My Master can be quite persuasive, far more so than I. My powers of persuasion were expended when I convinced him to leave Isabeau in Montfort, and I have not gotten my way with him since." A slight smile touched his lips. "So I know some, not _all._ Not as much as my Master, that is for certain."

"Mm... I see. Well, it's quite a serious matter to spill the secrets of this particular Order. Others may reprimand, depending on the level of treason.. but largely, leaks mean little for knights or Chevaliers or... well, whatever you please. No one is surprised to hear that Templars - who don't have magic of their own - take lyrium to use it against mages. But … that doesn't prevent people from joining the Templars. Well, it may some, who are inherently against using lyrium - but those people are few enough, no?"

He put more of his weight against the table, his right arm still across the top of the chair, his left elbow on the table as he propped up his head, a lazy and comfortable lean to his posture. "In Peace, Vigilance. In War, Victory. In Death, Sacrifice..." Ives quoted, sighing dramatically. "In _Life_ Sacrifice! If you didn't know what you were pushing her into, I can see why you shouldn't be blamed. No one would Join if they knew of the gnawing hunger, the constant Nightmares, the plague that bores through us... yes, it.. well, it is extraordinary indeed if a Warden conceives. Even if they did, what would they do with the child?"

"The taint will eventually consume us, forcing us to seek out the Darkspawn... and even if we wish to run from them, they'll eventually find us. But I've already said far too much. You've given me gifts, but how can I be sure you won't give this rare information to the highest bidder? I feel so much more invested in this _friendship_ just now. Weisshaupt would have me hung, yet here I am with these seductive lips so very loose. I rather like my neck not broken, don't you?"

Martin didn't say anything at first, sitting extraordinarily still. Then he leaned forward. "You want some truth, _mon ami?_ You describe terrors indeed, for every Warden, but I tell you truly: I would rather slit her throat myself than allow her to serve as I have and do what I have done." He withdrew a small dagger from his sleeve and casually began cleaning his nails. "In truth, I was sent to the Keep that day to perform two tasks: kill the servant and take my angel back to _him_. My Master is most... _greedy_ , you see, when he has found a toy he enjoys. I... I chose a different end to my sister's tale." The dagger disappeared, and his eyes... again, they changed, as they had following the Caged Lion. "I live for her, Ives Durante. I live for nothing but hunt, ah, it is distracting and entertaining... but my life, as you say, my _duty_... it is only for her."

Though his heart was pounding, the tension and suspense at its peak, Ives admirably remained outwardly calm, feeling it was far too important to coax out more information in this moment of rare vulnerability to allow himself failure, even if the alcohol was finally creeping along his skin and warming it nicely. "That is very noble and righteous indeed. I wonder... how is it such a dastardly man," he smirked, letting up from his left hand. With it extended he was able to reach Martin's arm, and he let his fingertips drag up from his elbow to shoulder. "... Wound up with such a selfless calling? I ever more think you let yourself be who you do not want, dear Martin."

"The Master gave me a choice, in the long and long ago, a choice most cruel and designed to harm. He would take one of us, no more. I chose myself to serve him." Martin glanced at the hand that touched him, eyes distant yet strangely focused. "I saw what he did, you see. I saw his eyes, his face, his smile. She was so young. I could no more give her to him than I could..." He looked away. "Ah, but your touch has the desired effect, I see. I prefer _your_ lips to be loose, or hard, as appropriate. Mine..." He shook his head. "I cannot afford such indulgence as trust. I have already risked too much, as you. He does not trust me, you see, but he must, at the least, trust in my belief that he could reach out and kill whomever he desires." He met Ives' eyes. "Such as the mother of a much beloved angel."

He leaned forward, tracing the line of muscle on Ives' lower arm. "I do not wish you in my world, _mon ami_ , as you do not wish me to be in yours. And yet, in your world is where I must dwell, to ensure that the worst nightmares that keep me from sleep, that keep me watchful, that acquire such _delightful_ gifts such as these," his hand rested on the large package still on the table, "do not come to pass. You say I am nervous? When you have seen what I have seen, then, perhaps, you will acquire the same nerves."

He glanced at the fleeting spots of shade along the sides of the street, no doubt gauging the light. Ives understood why - a man so fond of the shadows couldn't have been fond of high noon. "And now, as much as it pains me, I must away. There is still much hunting to be done, as they say, against that most dangerous of prey." Kissing his fingertips, he laid them gently on the other man's lips. "Until we once again meet, _mon ami,_ " he whispered, then smoothly leapt from his seat and moved in the shadows, quickly disappearing.

Ives quietly watched him go. For all that meeting was somewhat painful, at least he still had _the touch_. Martin was entirely convinced of something there that was, in fact, not in any way true. He shook his head after a moment and chuckled aloud. _The Martyr chasing the Martyr._ Of whom could Martin possibly be so afraid? In the past two years, Ives had met demons and ogres, and before _that_ he'd worked directly under the Empress. It stood to reason that he'd performed tasks for some of the most important people in Thedas, and battled some of the nastiest forces he could fathom existed. So what exactly had Martin so bundled up in this?

"Oh, Maker." He sighed, that smile still on his face. He poured his last half a glass of wine and began to sip it, picking up that bag and peeking inside. The shapes were odd, but the scent was lavender. It was a mistake to think perhaps they contained wrapped soaps. He was punished for pulling back the bundled parchment around one, his nose turning up when he saw more than enough to figure out what was contained. Without even bothering to unwrap another, he tossed the thumb back into the bag and bound it back up. As he stood he swayed a little, his eyes widening as a dose of vertigo threatened to lower him once more.

"Ah, lala. I'm out of practice, indeed." He took the bag with him as far as the first un-topped barrel, tossing it inside as he walked a crooked line back towards their inn. He wasn't staggering, he just seemed to wander a little more aimlessly than he usually would. "Who, oh who, dear Martin," he hummed to a tune he made up on the spot, "who, dear Martin, pulls your strings... yes but who could knot you up and tie you down... Maker, that doesn't rhyme at all. This early waking is bad for the mind... Or maybe the wine... Hah, now I rhyme."

He chuckled at his own lack of judgement on three full glasses of wine, but supposed that he'd needed it. There _was_ something _else_ he could really use, of course, but the sources were ever limited these days. Despite what he'd said about his saddle sore, there was just something about that green eye, when he was talking like that - so raw, almost vulnerable... _That_ man he could - he could maybe...

He shook his head and pinched his nose. "Ah, lala, how strong _was_ that wine?" It was a _terrible_ idea. No matter how woefully lonely he became whilst his Dalish Princess was monopolized by Jean and, thus, more willing to alienate him in the name of disciplining his reckless tendencies, there were a thousand reasons to abandon _that_ train of thought. One way or the other, he was certain no good could come of sleeping with Martin, even should the need to protect the others from him demand such an outcome. Of course, in the case of the latter Ives wouldn't refuse, but it would still be a wildly complicated endeavor.

 _Maybe I could get his subservience to this 'Master' out of his head before such a meeting does manage to happen... He certainly doesn't seem to_ agree _with the man._

Middle of the day or no, Ives wanted a nap.


	12. Night of the Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ives Durante and his companions arrive in Hunter Fell to discover that the name of the town is more prophetic than they could have imagined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to our beta, ShebasDawn!

 

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"I have committed a most egregious crime, _amour."_

Artana raised an eyebrow as she turned to regard Ives. "And of the many, to which one do you refer?"

Ives put a hand to his heart and gasped dramatically. _"Amour!_ How could you send such a barb towards me so early in the day?"

Her eyes flickered to their right, where the sun had just finished rising above the hills in the distance. Around them the Fields of Ghislain stretched in eternal silence, as if the blood of the Fallen had put an eternal spell of calm on them. They'd heard neither the song of birds nor the rustle of smaller creatures since hitting the boundaries of the FIelds after leaving Arlesans before the sun was more than a prediction. "It was not I who brought up the topic of your crimes," she pointed out.

"Ah, true." He chuckled, glad that the ice between them had thawed enough for him to venture into such a conversation. "Well, it is surely not the kiss I gave you yesterday, hmm?"

A delicious hint of color darkened the pallor of her cheeks as she turned her gaze forward. "I... would not call that a crime. Far too public," she added, though without the vehemence of a true reprimand, "but not a crime."

He nudged his mount, the feisty stallion they'd picked up Arlesans, a bit closer to Assan, a direction the stallion took quite readily - a nice change of pace for Ives. "Hmm, is that a bit of pink I see? Should I chase it away with another kiss?" He reached out and lightly touched her face, able to compensate for the movement of the horses only because of the slow pace that had been set for while they traveled in the dark. "Please, say _oui."_

She straightened, effectively taking her face out of his reach for the moment. "This is not the time. Nor was it then."

With a grin, he let her retreat for the moment, grateful to have gotten the victory of a blush from her - a hard-won triumph, indeed. After the nerve-wracking lunch of wine and verbal parrying he'd had with Martin the previous day, he'd returned to the Inn and collapsed into bed, sleeping away the lingering effects of the wine and the odd thoughts that had accompanied it before rising with a wince to fetch Isabeau.

Artana and Jean had taken care of the resupply while Ives had accompanied Isabeau back to the smith. A few empty but effective compliments later, bolstered by some absolutely stunning smiles and adorable little curtsies from Isabeau, and they had walked out with her armor and quite a bit more coin than Ives had anticipated, an outcome which improved his mood greatly. As a result, when he'd been able to give money _back_ to Artana that she'd assumed was gone forever, earning a grudging smile from his Princess, he couldn't help but take her in his arms and indulge in a rather _public_ display of his affection. Such a process was generally done over her protests but to her secret delight, and the heightened color on her pale cheeks merely added to her loveliness.

"Ah lala, but the dance of color on your face is ever the most irresistible of sights," he said with an impish grin. "And a reward more sweet I cannot imagine."

"The sun is up. We should pick up the pace," she said, though the blush of red hadn't completely fled her face. "Now that we can see the ground, so can the horses. It's a long way to Hunter Fell."

He sobered, the reminder that time was _not_ on their side drawing his attention more to her pallor than he liked. He _preferred_ to think of the beauty of her amber eyes as they surveyed their surroundings, the strength of her lithe body as she twisted to check on the rest of the party behind them, the sweep of her midnight hair as it cascaded down her back and along Assan's side. None of that vision of loveliness was aided by the spectre of death that hovered over her. Shaking his head as he tried to dismiss the morbid thoughts, he replied, _"Oui,_ that it is." He sighed as he looked north, trying to see beyond the expanse of the Fields and to the town that was no more than a waypost on the way to their true destination. "Far too long."

"I will endure," she said simply, and the hushed statement encapsulated the whole of her: her strength, her determination, her sheer _will_ which would not let her die with business unfinished. She had promised both Ives and his brother that they _would_ get a proper farewell from her before she died. "I must."

"I know," he replied, all hints of his previous mischief dissipated. "And you never break a promise, _amour."_

"Only once."

Mentally he cursed himself, even as he reached out to lay his hand on her arm. He wasn't sure what he could say to that, other than to realize that the ghost of memory that had been stirred before Arlesans lingered. "Livilla was right. Life is too precious for regret."

She jerked her her arm away from his touch. "Perhaps, but time is short." Her legs flexed as she nudged Assan into a faster walk, the kind that the horses could maintain for hours as long as care was taken to rest them regularly. "I cannot forget my crimes, though, nor should I."

Caught a trifle off-guard, Ives urged his horse into the faster pace, quickly catching up with her. _"Amour-"_ he began, wanting to protest her self-condemnation, but her curt gesture cut him off.

"Enough. I do not want to dwell on the past, not when I am looking to secure my future."

He subsided, knowing that she would not budge on the matter, not after a statement like that. Still, seeking an opportunity to lighten the mood, he cleared his throat and put on a smile. "Ah, but do you not wish to know the nature of my most heinous crime which I mentioned earlier?"

The gaze she turned on him still held more of sadness than determination, but at least his smile invited a return of her raised brow. "Since it seems you will not let me _not_ inquire, I suppose I will do so."

The grin turned into a more gentle smile. "I would never _force_ you to inquire, but... Ah, in this case, perhaps I will. My crime, you see, involves you."

That earned him a tug at the corner of her lips. "Now you are blaming me for it?"

He felt more heartened with each raised brow, each tug of her lips, and each blush of her cheeks. Though he did not begrudge Jean his time with her - well, _most_ of the time, knowing his brother's needs as well as he did - Ives yet desired her attention as well. He'd never met a woman such as her before, certainly not in Orlais, and he'd been as unable to resist her unique nature and remarkable strength as Jean had been. Granted, a healthy dose of _lust_ had gone into his initial decision to approach Artana, but encountering Jean while on his way to meet her and learning that his brother had had the same goal in mind as Ives had...

The smile stayed in place, but it took an effort. "Ah, lala, who else can I blame for this particular crime?" So saying, he allowed his eyes to again sweep over her form. "A crime most terrible."

She sighed. "Out with it."

Chuckling, he leaned over as best as he could given the increased pace of their horses. "The crime... I have not yet told you today how your beauty takes my breath away with but the merest glance!"

And again, a measure of victory was his as her cheeks warmed yet again. "We have a lot of ground to make up. Let's pick up the pace."

As she nudged Assan forward yet again, he allowed her to move ahead of him. He didn't want to push so hard that she pushed back, driving them apart. Over the years, he had come to appreciate the fact that in his Dalish Princess, the reticence concealed a deep passion in which she rarely let herself indulge. Still, he had made progress towards once more gracing her bed... he hoped. _Oh_ , how he hoped.

A boisterous laugh drew his attention to those riding behind him. Twisting in his saddle, he saw that Jean was leaning back as he indulged in that loud, pure expression of amusement that his brother was so well known for back in Val Royeaux. More interestingly, Ives saw Isabeau's expression, catching the hint of quiet joy in her face as she watched him. Though she wiped it clean when a smiling Jean turned to face her again, it made an impression on Ives, and the wheels began to turn in his head. It was a thought on the edge of forming, without words, in his mind as he looked forward to where Artana rode ahead of them, the wind whipping her hair.

_Perhaps..._

.~^~.

The next few days passed rather uneventfully, though on occasion Artana would invite Jean to take some time to explore nearby dried riverbeds. Though on the surface this didn't affect Ives, inside the bard pined a little more each time her eyes landed on him before sliding to his brother for the invitation. He continued his patient campaign, however, of lavishing her with adoration and kisses as she allowed, and each time, her gaze lingered longer before Jean was selected for the _explorations._

Late during what they hoped would be the last night on the plains before reaching Hunter Fell, Ives sighed as settled himself into his bedroll following his watch. By all rights, he should have been pleased at the progress that had been made since Arlesans, and not only with Artana, though that particular thorn of unrequited longing seemed almost to have been removed from his side. Artana had made a point of demanding a kiss from him when she had woken him to take over her watch - a kiss that had led to a bit _more_ given how much of her cool skin was accessible due to the design of her armor - and when he had pleaded to be allowed back to her good graces in between the peppering of kisses on her face and neck, she had smiled and whispered, _"When there is a bed to be had."_

Never had he wanted a return to civilization more than that moment, but she had left him pining softly to find her bedroll and leave him to his watch.

Admittedly, he was quite distracted during it. Usually he was quite alert, though it was not bandits he feared appearing from the dark, but rather an obsessive sociopath who thought that severed thumbs were a thoughtful gift of regard. Now... well, now, he found himself glancing to where Artana lay on the ground, fighting the urge to go to her and try to convince her that a _bed_ roll in a dry river _bed_ should be considered close enough for their purposes.

When the time came to wake Jean, he was in a peculiarly heightened state of mind. Even as his brother snorted and rose, sword in hand, to take over the watch, Ives lay down with the certainty that rest would be impossible for him this night. Try as he might to fall into slumber, it remained just out of reach, until he finally turned over with a sigh and opened his eyes.

And saw Isabeau rise from her bedroll.

Curious, he remained still, trusting to the dark to hide his curiosity as he watched her stand, carefully ready herself to leave, then grab her arms and armor and walk from the camp, glancing at Jean as she did so. Even more curious, Jean nodded at her, then copied her actions, prepping himself for departure before taking his belongings and following her.

Slowly Ives sat up. This was, obviously, a situation he had to investigate, even if he sadly acknowledged that the presence of arms and armor precluded any of the more _interesting_ reasons for such clandestine behavior. With a stealth gained from many years of practice, he rose and made his way after them.

He found them not too distant from the camp, standing close to one another. Ducking to keep his body close to the tip of the rise which kept them hidden from view of the camp, his mind raced with possibilities as he crept close enough to overhear what they said to each other. The earliest hints of dawn began to lighten the air around him as he did so, enough so that he knew he had to be cautious of being seen, but also so that he could observe them from a greater distance.

"I wish it were not so tight," he heard Jean rumble.

 _Ah, context is so very vital to a statement such as that,_ Ives thought with a smirk.

Sadly, in his next breath, Jean dashed all hopes for excitement in the pre-dawn light. "The blacksmith must have replaced this strap but not the other one."

 _Armor. How boring._ With a sigh, he settled himself into a comfortable position, all hopes of something _Orlesian_ dashed, but stuck for it now since leaving at this point would likely attract undue attention.

As he watched, Jean tugged at one of Isabeau's shoulders, pulling her into him. A light gasp rang in the cold morning air as she rocked on her feet, her back clanging against his chest. "Oh, sorry, I wasn't expecting that." She cleared her throat as she regained her footing. "It wasn't this bad yesterday."

Jean chuckled. "It is a bit colder this morning. Perhaps that is having an effect."

"Y-yes, that must be it." Again she was rocked on her feet as Jean pulled at the fittings of her armor, though this time she accommodated the motion by simply scooting her feet back towards Jean. "I'm glad Ives didn't talk the smith into, ah, altering my armor, then."

Ives wasn't surprised when Jean clammed up at that statement, given the details of the conversation where an alternate design for Isabeau's armor had been raised. What did catch him off guard was the way that Jean's hands came to a rest on Isabeau's shoulders, accompanied by a gentle smile on his brother's face that Ives had only seen in the presence of two women - neither of them Isabeau. _Ah, lala, the hummingbird has found a place to land this morning,_ non?

Sadly, it was not to be. Even as Jean's head began to dip forward - a move Ives recognized from the many times Jean had planted a kiss on the top of Cateline's head during their years of marriage - he watched as his brother drew back abruptly and frowned. With a shake of his head, Jean removed his hands from Isabeau and took a step back. "There, that should be secure now." Quickly arranging his sword and shield, he nodded to Isabeau. "Shall we, sister?"

As they began to spar, Ives allowed himself an audible, if subdued, sigh of frustration as he used the sound of their blades to cover his retreat back to camp. _My dear, sainted brother, sometimes you are simply too noble for your own good._

.~^~.

Hunter Fell drew closer with every hour. There was a bit more snap in everyone's movements, and each pause taken to rest the horses as they got closer to their destination seemed longer than on other days, despite the fact they were the same length as on previous days. Though it took until the sky adapted the faint pink and orange of the coming sunset to bring the town in sight, this time they did not stop to rest the horses, choosing instead to press on through - a decision possibly aided by Ives' pleading look sent to Artana as he mouthed the word _bed_ to her. Though no smile crossed her face, she did roll her eyes in a manner he recognized as affectionate, and kept going.

They reached the outskirts of the sprawling town just as the sunset was truly getting spectacular with a riotous melange of orange and pink spreading across the sky. In the distance, the full moon could be seen above the horizon, its unchanging face calm and serene and clearly _no_ reflection of Ives' internal state of giddy anticipation. It had, after all, been a _long_ time.

Still, he managed to restrain himself as they walked their horses down the main street. Peripherally, he knew something was... off, but he was so eager to reach the inn and the long-promised _bed_ within that he tried to dismiss his rising disquiet. So what if there were no people walking on the streets in this fine, balmy weather of the Northern Orlesian fall? So what if a particularly noxious weed seemed to be nailed with iron onto every building? So what if every window appeared to be boarded up? So what if... if...

Ives heaved a great sigh. The hummingbird, it seemed, would flutter out of his grasp yet another night. "A bit... empty, no, _amour?"_

Artana nodded grimly. "We will go to the inn first. If it is closed, we will keep looking until we find someone who will talk with us." Her hands had already found her bow and strung it, holding it at the ready as her knees guided Assan towards the largest building in the small town square.

"What are those awful smelling plants?" Isabeau asked curiously. Ives noted with approval that both of the younger women had brought their own weapons to bear and appeared to be on high alert as they moved through the eerily deserted town.

"Ragwort," Artana answered.

"Why on Thedas would they have put it on every building?"

Artana didn't answer, though she did exchange a glance with Ives, whose crossbow was now also out and ready with a bolt set in place. "We will find out soon enough, I hope," was all she said, but Ives nodded grimly and glanced back at Jean, feeling better when he noticed that the man already put his helmet on and was settling his sword and shield into place. Out of the corner of his eye, Ives saw Livilla's staff abruptly twitch, and light began to emanate from it, filling the darkening world around them with a gleam that chased away the shadows.

 _Granted, only peasants would believe that ragwort actually_ repels _the beasts,_ he mused, _but then, if you're desperate enough..._

As if on cue, a wolf's howl rose above the town, and Artana stiffened. "Faster." With a _nck-nck_ to Assan and the urging of her knees, she led them in a short gallop to the large building beckoning to them at the edge of the square: the only building, Ives noted, that had a tall fence built around it - one that seemed recent in origin.

The fence opened as they reached it, allowing them to squeeze in one by one. Another howl worshipped the moon as Jean, the last of them, squeezed through the gate. Ives turned in time to see Ebony, eyes wide, lose several strands of hair from his tail as a group of five townsmen slammed the gate shut behind them and heaved a huge bar of wood into place. As his eyes adjusted to the bright light that came from torches and lamps spread throughout the courtyard of the inn, he noticed that all the people around them were men, each with a makeshift weapon of some kind.

"Pitchforks and scythes... You are brave to fight this foe with such weapons." Artana, at the lead, was clearly surveying the crowd.

"Desperate, more like," one of the men said to her, though he had an old sword tucked into his belt. Ives wondered when it had last seen the light of day before the recent troubles had begun. The man who had spoken stepped forward, his weary eyes taking in the mix of armor and arms with a single glance before settling on Isabeau, the only one among them who had the griffon on her armor since Jean had elected to travel in his old Chevalier plate. "You... You're Wardens?"

Artana nodded. "I am Warden-Commander Artana Mahariel. We are traveling north on Grey Warden business."

Shifting from foot to foot, the man nodded hesitantly. He looked around the faces of the men, all of them pinched and worn, then back to Artana. "Ah, my Lady... I wish I could welcome you with something a bit more appropriate to your station, but-"

"How long have the werewolves been plaguing you?" Artana asked calmly, as if she had inquired about the weather.

Ives heard Isabeau gasp as the man grimaced. "Tonight'll be the third full moon since the first one appeared. We don't lose nearly so many as we did that first month, but..." His face grew grim as his voice trailed away. After a moment's silence, he shrugged and looked around him. "Well... Each night is a battle, o' course. We could sure use your help, even if only for tonight."

The bard exchanged a glance with Jean and found a frown on his brother's face that matched his own. Technically, they owed these people nothing, of course, and according to Grey Warden protocol, they should not allow themselves to be drawn into any conflict which might endanger the mission which they had undertaken. _Technically_.

Before either one of the twins could open their mouths, however, Isabeau asked, "We _are_ going to help them, aren't we, Commander?"

Artana nodded. "We will slay the beasts," she promised.

" _Amour,"_ Jean and Ives said simultaneously, though only Ives continued when Artana turned to look at them. "Perhaps this is one plight we'd be better off ignoring?"

"Werewolves are a burden of the forest. I am taking this initiative as Elvhen, not as a Warden. I do not think the Wardens would frown too much upon taking action in this situation, either." Her decision made, she turned back to the man standing in front of them. "We will need some aid, particularly at first since I presume there will be an initial rush to overwhelm us. I cannot promise that all your people will survive the night." Another howl rose, joined quickly by a second, as if to underscore the dangers that awaited them. Artana glanced up at the sky, noting that the night was now a pure, rich indigo dotted with stars. "We will end this curse. The stars are to be enjoyed, not feared."

Ives took a deep breath as Artana dismounted and began moving among the humans, asking questions about their supplies, the fence around the inn and the compound it created, and details of the town's layout. He left his saddle with a certain resignation, since he surmised it would take a while to develop a battle plan. The clanking behind told him Jean had followed suit, and he held the horse's reins as he went to Livilla's side and held out a hand for her. "Would you like some help, _ma chèrie?"_

For a moment she hesitated, light reflecting off of her eye in the depths of her hood. He wondered when she had pulled it up, but it was clear she was a bit intimidated by the sudden crowd. When her hand landed in his, he felt it tremble slightly. He made a point to arrange it so that when she dismounted, she was very close to him, allowing him a quiet moment with her even amidst the crowd. "Ah, there is no reason to worry, _chèrie._ I am here, _non?"_ He smiled at her in encouragement, and this close he could easily see her face as her lips compressed together.

After a moment, the trembling stopped and she took a deep breath. With a small shove that sent him towards Artana, she said, "Go. The Commander needs you."

" _Oui,"_ he said with a wink. He walked to where Artana stood, joining Jean next to her as Artana asked the man - who turned out to be the mayor - question after question. The brothers' eyes met for a weighty moment, particularly when the inquiry of 'how many' got a confused answer that ran from a dozen to 'hundreds'. It was safe to say that the answer likely lay somewhere in the middle of those extremes, but either way, it pointed to a long night.

A night, sadly, in which the hummingbird was likely be neglected yet again, the flower's sweet nectar untasted. _Ah, alas, Fate is by far my most cruel Mistress!_

.~^~.

The second wave of enemies ended with a sword thrust, Jean's strong arm enough to drive the point of his well-maintained sword into the heart of the beast before it could finish climbing over the barricade. With a sigh, the misshapen werewolf slid off the blade and joined the pile of his dead fellows in front of the barricade that had been erected in addition to the fence around the inn. Jean took a step back, breathing heavily.

Ives sympathized with him: fighting for any extended length of time in full plate armor was a misery he himself never wished to experience. On the tail end of that thought, he looked to Isabeau, a bit worried since it was the first combat since her collapse, but she seemed to be doing a bit better than Jean. He found the reason why when he turned to Livilla and found her gaze locked on Isabeau and her lone eye dimming from white to black. _A little clandestine help, hmm?_ As he watched, though, the mage turned to Jean, and her eye flared white.

Jean stiffened with a gasp, but by the time Livilla's eye dimmed, he was definitely breathing easier and seemed ready for the next round.

A howl drew attention back to the darkness beyond the hasty barricade that they'd thrown together with the help of the townsfolk, and Ives reflexively glanced down to where he'd hidden the daggers gifted him by Martin. He'd certainly prefer to not _need_ them, but he knew at least twenty werewolves and wolves lay dead out in the square, riddled with Artana's arrows or scorched with Livilla's magic, and nearly as many were in the pile in front of the barricade downed by crossbow bolt or blade. He might not have the _luxury_ of avoiding close combat, especially since not even Livilla could both attack and heal without rest herself, even if he still hadn't seen her use lyrium - or even knew if she had any.

Still, if there were yet _more_ howls out there, it meant that the alpha had not shown his muzzle yet. A sneaking suspicion began to grow, and he looked at Artana to see the same grim expression on her face that he was sure was on his own. "Their leader is not coming out," she observed. "At least, not in range of our weapons." Her eyes narrowed as she tried to penetrate the darkness of the square. "Or they are learning to adapt to the barricade, and neither explanation bodes well for future encounters. We must attend to him tonight, or risk being delayed here for days to hunt them down."

"We don't have time for that," Livilla noted, but Ives could almost hear the unspoken qualifier in everyone's thoughts: _Artana does not have time for that._ "So we must draw them out."

Artana nodded. "We must draw them out. It is either that or hunt them down one by one, and the conditions do not favor us in that tactic."

"Leave the barricade?" Jean surmised, a frown on his face.

Artana shrugged as she hopped down from the sturdy crates she had been standing on for a better vantage. Another howl echoed through the night, but it sounded no closer than the second one. "They are like animals, and think like animals. Now that we have bloodied them, they will be more wary to enter the open, but they are not smart enough to simply give up. Especially if-"

"-they are presented with an irresistible target?" Isabeau finished for her. "A bait too delectable to ignore? Say, perhaps, a short woman sent out from the barricade to gather arrows?"

Artana nodded. "I will go out and-"

"No, Commander, I respectfully disagree," Isabeau interrupted her before either twin could do so. "I should go. I'm shorter than you and possibly even more vulnerable looking, but even more importantly, in this case the armor _matters."_ She tapped the lamellar armor that covered her torso beneath the griffon emblazoned on her chest plate. "It only takes a bite, _non?_ That bite would be far too likely to find flesh on you if even one penetrated your defenses."

As Artana mulled over Isabeau's words, Ives managed to beat Jean to voicing his opinion - likely because Jean did not know which woman to address first, given the way the warrior shifted from foot to foot. _"Amour,_ Isabeau is right in that your current protection is not suitable to exposing yourself, even potentially, to the attack of a werewolf. However, _ma chèrie,"_ he continued, turning to Isabeau, "you cannot think we would allow you to go out there on such a scheme."

"It makes tactical sense," Isabeau insisted, "and it's the best shot we have at drawing the rest of them out in one night."

Jean was struggling, Ives could tell. Isabeau was correct: tactically, it _did_ make sense to give the appearance of vulnerability to draw an enemy into a rash action. The problem was, in this case, the appearance and the _actuality_ of being vulnerable were all too close outside the relative safety of the barricade. Thus far, Jean and Isabeau had been fighting side by side almost the entire time, with the archers and mage behind them launching long-distance attacks over their heads and the townsfolk covering the sides of the barricades to prevent the lone werewolf here or there from coming in over the sides.

"I should go to cover her," the warrior finally said. "I am protected head to toe in steel and leather. I... I am of more use in the open than behind a wall." Ives watched as Jean once again glanced between the two women, his eyes lingering just a short while longer on Artana than Isabeau. "If their teeth find flesh on _me_ , I almost say they deserve to."

Isabeau glanced at Jean, then looked away, up at the top of the barricade. "Not too close to me, if you... if you insist. And I still think I should go alone. I'm not-"

Another howl keened through the air, almost taunting in its distance. "Whatever we do," Livilla interjected, "we must decide quickly. Perhaps Isabeau and I could go out front."

Artana shook her head as she turned to climb back onto the crate. "We cannot risk our only mage. I also will not put Isabeau into undue danger." Settling herself on the crate, she took up her bow and sighted along it, searching for any signs of strain in string or wood. There was a terseness to her tone and posture that made Ives wonder how fond she was of the plan, and for what particular reason she hesitated. "Isabeau, Jean will accompany you, but you will be separated. Jean, do not get too close to her." Her amber eyes settled on her lover, and the phrasing... Ives had to wonder if the warning applied to more than the battle, somehow. "The wolves have to believe her vulnerable. The three of us will cover you, but first the enemy must be drawn out. Livilla," she turned to the mage, who straightened to attention. "That light spell you cast as we came into the village. Can you cast it again?"

"Yes, though I won't be able to attack while I maintain it. Not at that distance, anyway. And..." She glanced at Isabeau. "The longer I wait to cast it once the first werewolves come out-"

"-the more will be caught in the trap," Isabeau finished for her. Her face settled into a grim expression as she reached for the small helm she'd put aside while behind the barricade so as not to compromise her vision. "Then wait as long as you can. Not all shadows are my enemy." Setting the helm on her head, she moved to the crate upon which Ives currently crouched and held up a hand. "Help me over, lout, I've got some arrows to pretend to collect."

He took her hand, but as she passed him, he held her in place for a moment. "Surely you are not... _relying_ on the shadows?" he asked softly for her ears only.

Her hand tightened around his, though she didn't look at him. Still, he saw her lips move and he hurriedly leaned in closer under the guise of lowering her to the opposite side of the crate. "He won't let me die."

Then she let go of his hand and was moving through the townspeople who were defending the rest of the barricade, waiting patiently as they moved aside enough of it for her to slip through an opening.

Jean climbed over the crate without help from Ives, who was still looking after Isabeau with a frown. His brother's expression was... odd, a mixture of anxiety and determination, and unlike the usual focused concentration Jean wore during battle. He managed to set a hand on Jean's shoulder before he got out of reach. "Take care, _mon frère."_

Jean hesitated long enough to settle his gauntleted hand on Ives' gloved one. "Ward Artana," he said quietly, then surged ahead to follow Isabeau.

The following minutes were tense. Some of the torches in the farthest reaches of the town square had dimmed, which meant that the further out that Isabeau and Jean ventured, the harder it was to follow their movements from behind the barricade. The moon helped, but it wasn't as bright as could be hoped for their purposes, despite the fact that it was full. Artana had an arrow nocked as she watched them carefully, gaze tracking the reflection of the torches off their armor as they worked through the fallen bodies, taking arrows as their pretense demanded. Ives cursed softly when the two warriors stepped beyond the most accurate range of his crossbow, knowing that any shot he made from this distance would need to be directed at enemies not in close proximity to them. After much testing, he and Artana had determined that his crossbow could launch a bolt farther than Artana's bow, but that Artana's arrows always struck their mark except at the extreme edge of her range... and the two in armor were not yet beyond _that,_ at least.

A sudden distant growl made all three of them stand to attention. A dark moving patch suddenly launched itself from behind a building and ran towards Jean, snarling and snapping. Artana's arrow found its shoulder, forcing it to roll a few feet from the warrior, and Jean's smooth thrust finished it off. Another growl came, this time from Isabeau's side, but the blur of dark brown fur was seized by a lightning bolt launched with admirable precision from Livilla's staff, allowing Isabeau's blade to slash across the neck and send blood spraying to the side.

"I do not like this," Ives muttered softly. "What if the bite is not the only worry? Could a claw mark or blood also infect them? The taint-"

"According to my people's lore, it requires a bite," Artana declared. "Now be silent. I need to concentrate. Livilla, stand ready."

"Yes, Commander." Livilla's knuckles were white due to the strength with which she gripped her staff, but her eye didn't waver from the two armored figures in the distance.

Suddenly a series of howls arose, and the hair on Ives' neck rose as he realized that _these_ howls arose from _all_ sides. Dropping the crossbow, he dove desperately for the daggers he'd hidden away and pulled them into his hands, turning to leap onto the crate in time to slash at the paw that reached up over the wall of the inn's courtyard. "Behind!" he yelled. _How in the Fade did they get back there?_ Grimly he wondered how many people were dead behind that large fence.

Suddenly the air around them was lit as if it were midday, and the screams and gurgles of the humans as they were caught by the surprise flank attack mixed in with the whines and shrieks of the werewolves as the light blinded them momentarily.

That moment was enough for the humans to rally, and for Artana to leap off her crate to the ground. From there she pivoted and began picking off the enemies that now strove to advance on them from behind.

Unfortunately, it also left Isabeau and Jean on their own. And Ives... well, his own hands were full as he made sure that Livilla remained untouched by the surrounding enemies. If they lost the light that gave them the ability to see their enemies so clearly, they would _all_ die.

Time seemed to slow as his focus narrowed to nothing but his own defense and, by extension, the two ladies he fought beside. Livilla at least managed to make her way so that her back was to the barricade, meaning he only had to worry about half as much ground, but the number of enemies astounded him. _Were they merely testing our defenses before? Or were those two assaults designed for the sole purpose of getting the bulk of their forces around to flank us?_ Either way, it spoke of a disturbing intelligence, though he hoped the latter were true: it might mean Isabeau and Jean were facing only a token force on their own, rather than a ravenous horde equally as large as what now assailed those behind the barricade from all sides.

Ives refused to even consider what would happen in that case.

Somehow, the combination of his quick blades and Artana's even faster arrows saw them through the assault, though his occasional glances to the side showed it was not only the bodies of werewolves and wolves which lay still amongst the townsfolk. Somehow the light stayed steady, though he noticed that Livilla's breathing was now coming in short gasps behind him, and he wondered how long she would be able to maintain the spell.

It wasn't until after he'd stabbed a one-eared werewolf in the throat and slashed it with his other knife that he realized the pressure had eased. Next to him, Artana nocked one more arrow and looked around for a target which never materialized. Ives leaned over and set his hands on his knees, drawing in huge lungfuls of air to ease the pain in his side that had somehow crept up on him in the midst of the battle. "You are both- both untouched?" he managed to gasp.

Abruptly a woman's scream cut through the air, accompanied by a sound that, even at this distance, sent a chill through him: _breaking bones._ The sound galvanized him, gave him strength to hop back up on his abandoned crate and search the space in front of the barricade for the only woman he cared about that hadn't been next to him when the scream had reached his ears: _Isabeau._

In the bright light of Livilla's spell, he beheld two figures in armor where they had confronted a huge foe of mottled black and grey fur, an impressive pile of fallen foes strewn haphazardly around them. He saw Isabeau clutching at her arm as she fell to her knees, saw the werewolf beside her throw away a crushed piece of metal that might once have been a round targe, and saw Jean charge the huge beast with a roar. With a powerful blow from the creature, Jean was sent flying to land several long paces away, groaning helplessly as the werewolf turned to contemplate his vulnerable victim. Time seemed to crawl as the beast's tongue emerged to lick its teeth in a terrifying grin. It completely ignored the arrow which sped through the air to land in its shoulder. Ives cried in horror as the light which Livilla had been valiantly maintaining suddenly flickered and vanished just as that ravenous maw began to lunge down towards Isabeau.

A shadow darker than the night around them suddenly collided with the beast and drove it to the ground. _That_ was enough to distract it from Isabeau, particularly when the shadow suddenly drew a dagger and sank it into its unpierced shoulder. With a roar, the werewolf focused on this new attack, and the two combatants wrestled on the ground, moving away from where Isabeau was clearly only now beginning to think through the pain of her viciously broken arm. Ives struggled to remember that only seconds had passed since he'd heard the bones snap, and only seconds were passing as he watched the man he assumed _must_ be Martin take on the beast that had to be the elusive leader of the werewolf pack. Even as he jerked forward, he stopped himself as he recalled that the light had dropped so suddenly, and he turned back again to look at Livilla. She was laying at a strange angle on the ground, as though she'd had no control over the fall.

Would she be all right? Who was in greater danger? The half-formed questions in his mind were put aside as he threw caution to the wind and climbed up over a crate so that he could clear the barricade. "Artana! Help Livilla!" he called, then jumped - quite literally - into the fray.

When he reached Isabeau's side he didn't stop looking left and right in rampant paranoia, even as he wrapped his arms around her. Despite the adrenaline and lingering danger, he carefully avoided her hurt arm and hummed a tune to calm her. He held her close, trying to keep her still, but she struggled weakly as her eyes followed the two figures rolling in the dust. The combatants were moving so quickly that not even Artana dared let fly an arrow to end the matter - a restraint which demonstrated the respect Martin had earned from her with his foolish but effective maneuver.

The fight was savage, with Martin's daggers and the werewolf's claws and teeth glinting in the moonlight and torchlight to the accompaniment of growls and grunts. Blood lay in dark patches on the ground behind them as it continued, and in the dim light, Ives could not tell from whom the blood originated. A movement from the corner of his eye drew his attention for a moment, and he watched as Jean struggled to his feet with evident difficulty, a crease ruining the line of his breastplate and showing the strength with which he'd been hit. The distraction lasted only an instant, however, before his eyes moved back to the struggle no more than a dozen feet away, close enough now that he could see the long rents in the sleeves of the fighter who lacked fur, and feel Isabeau whimper at the sight of the blood that glistened under the shredded cloth.

Suddenly the snarls from the werewolf transformed into a squeal of pain as one of Martin's daggers plunged deeply into its abdomen, and for that moment the beast sounded more like a dog than a wolf. The squeal became subsumed into a roar, but that was cut off abruptly when Martin placed both his hands on the hilt of his remaining dagger, planted the tip under the werewolf's chin, and shoved upwards with all his strength.

The werewolf immediately went limp, though the fingers on its hands continued to twitch slightly for a few seconds.

Laboriously Martin pushed himself away from the werewolf, rolling to one side until he was on his hands and knees a few feet from where Ives still knelt with his arms around Isabeau. His breath came in short, quick bursts, and his arms trembled from the strain of the fight. This close, the light of the moon allowed Ives to see the deep puncture wounds left by the werewolf's teeth on one of the man's shoulders. After taking a deep breath, Martin raised his head and looked at Isabeau, as if she were the only thing in Thedas that existed. With an effort that almost hurt to watch, he crawled closer to them. "My angel," he whispered.

Isabeau stared at him, eyes wide through her pain. Her trembling, which had been subsiding, suddenly increased, and Ives heard a little sob escape her as she reached out with her unbroken arm towards the man. _"Martin..."_

It was almost as if someone had taken hold of his heart and squeezed as Ives watched the scene unfold. Isabeau, arm shattered, still reached for Martin, yearning for the one who by all rights she should fear above all others. Jean, for all his anger and hatred, could do little more than stare, the chain of events leaving him uncertain what to do. No doubt it had been jarring to see Martin do something so selfless - Ives was feeling much the same shock, despite Martin's earlier declarations of absolute devotion to _his angel_. Ives felt a sense of awe work through him as he looked at Martin, realizing that the man had spoken nothing less than the truth. For all that Ives had been _hopeful_ before, now he was _certain_ that Martin could be (or, sadly, perhaps _could have been,_ given the nature of his injuries _)_ redeemed.

Maybe it was because Ives had better reach, given his place at Isabeau's side. Maybe it was something more. If anyone was going to tell - no, _show_ \- Martin that what he'd done was worthy of note and _spectacular_ , maybe it should have been Isabeau. Clearly their connection was deep, and maybe in this moment of purity he didn't have any business interfering. His heart had gotten him into much deeper trouble in his years, though, and so before Ives knew it, the pressure around his heart eased all of a sudden, and the world suddenly opened up beyond his narrow focus on Martin. The world caught up before his mind did, and suddenly he realized what he'd done in that quiet moment of awe: much as his eyes were staring deep into Martin's, his hand was likewise entwined, clutching the outstretched, bloodied one that had been offered.

Martin's eyes were wide as they stared back at Ives, reflecting a deep uncertainty as to how to respond. His fingers tightened around those which threaded them, however, and for the briefest of moments a smile came to his lips as he looked at Ives.

Then the mismatched eyes rolled up into his head as Martin collapsed, the fall dragging his hand from Ives' grasp. With a cry, Isabeau reached out to him, but Ives kept her back. "Your arm, _chèrie,"_ he whispered, though now his own mind was once more roiling with questions, with no answers easily forthcoming.

"We will... wash him, then bind his wounds. Livilla can look at him." Though Jean tried to keep his voice gentle for Isabeau's sake, Ives could hear the strain to talk in such a way about this _particular_ man. "If he can be healed … if ... I have a matter to settle with him, and I would prefer he die for his crimes at my hand, honorably." Jean didn't look like he knew quite how to react or how to feel, and Ives so wished he did. Maybe if his brother had a stronger reaction, Ives would have had something to latch onto - to... emulate, if nothing else.

Tears filled Isabeau's eyes, and it was clear she was having difficulty looking away from Martin. Her next words were spoken in a whisper and directed to the unconscious man. "You know the legends as well as I. Why-?" Hesitantly, she reached out and stroked his face, one of the few places untouched by a crimson flow. "Martin,"she murmured. "What _happened_ to you?"

"Sister, your arm," Jean said, then paused. "We need to get you to a healer." Jean put his sword in its sheath and his shield on his back, then knelt beside them. "I will carry you, if you wish. He ... he must be considered later."

"How - how can you say that?" Ives asked, still struggling with himself. "I ... I need a ... take her," he said, gently squeezing Isabeau's good arm. "I'll be sure our martyr is taken care of," he whispered to her, struggling as though he were already dead and now another 'job' unfinished. "Artana will have been helping Livilla recover by now."

She smiled wanly up at Ives before turning to Jean with an equally weak smile. "This seems to be becoming a habit." With difficulty and both Jean's and Ives' assistance, she managed to stand, immediately biting her lips as she cradled her arm. "My poor armor," she gasped. "I... I think it will need to be cut off my arm." Certainly her arm had swollen to fill the sleeve, both above and below the elbow. The sleeve itself had been torn and shredded when the werewolf had ripped the shield away. Ives winced, knowing a terrible break when he saw one.

"If I had been faster..." Jean shook his head. "I could not even take the blow for you." Yet he'd been prepared to, that much was clear to Ives. "Are you ready?" Ives assumed he didn't want to jostle her as he bent to situate himself in a way best suited to lift her, their armor clattering against each other. "I know it is a broken arm, not a leg, but you cannot begin to rest too soon."

She sighed, casting one last glance at Martin's crumpled form before turning a rather pathetic expression to Jean. Ives _knew_ it was not calculated, and knew equally well that Isabeau had no idea how much it affected his brother when she said in a tiny voice, "I thank you for your consideration, ser. I... I wouldn't mind feeling strong arms around me right now."

No doubt unsure how to respond, Jean set his jaw and nodded. At best picking her up could be described as _clumsy_ , but he shifted her until she settled into a sweet spot between elbow and breastplate. Ives knew there must have been confusing emotions within the man, particularly when Isabeau sighed and leaned against his chest, humming a tune quite familiar to both brothers, a tune which matched the words Isabeau had chanted on the road to Arlesans.

Ives felt a smile skitter across his face as he turned away from his brother. Conflicting emotions, indeed... and he simply could _not_ understand why they were inside himself, as well. As Jean plodded off with Isabeau in his arms, resiliently carrying her over the corpse-littered uneven ground in spite of the combined weight of two sets of armor and both of their occupants testing his calves, Ives turned his attention instead to the man who, the day before, was simply someone Ives would have been more than happy to see gone entirely from his life.

And now? Ives couldn't explain what made him lean over and struggle with Martin's heavy body. It was a mystery to him why he took the man's armor off, save for the dim voice in the back of his head that suggested it would make Martin a little lighter - an impulse which, again, he couldn't articulate. Yet he did it, and as he hummed a little tune to steady his body and mind against the strain of it, he hefted the body - far too heavy for a rogue such as himself to get very far with - and somehow still found his way back inside the barricade.

Ives finally relinquished the man to a group of townsfolk who arrived with a stretcher, a blond man at the lead, and watched them take Martin to the inn's courtyard, settling him next to Livilla and Isabeau to await the attentions of the local healer. Sinking to his knees next to the barricade, Ives watched as Artana directed the townsfolk in the proper disposal of the werewolves' bodies. He observed as Jean leaned against the fence near the inn, gaze shifting back and forth between the diminutive elf who shared his bed and the equally small human who bravely remained silent as her arm was pulled straight and splinted.

Ives let his hands fall to the ground in weariness, and blinked when they found cold metal there. He glanced down and saw the daggers which he had abandoned in his haste to jump the barricade and reach Isabeau's side. Carefully he picked them up, one by one, and cleaned them with a cloth pulled from the pouch around his waist. _Martin can be saved, I am sure of it..._ His fingers moved over the cool metal of the exquisitely wrought blades before he brought them together with a click and blindly reached for the sheath that still lay beneath the barricade. Slowly he put the sheath around his waist and slid them home, sighing as he felt the comfortable weight of weapons once more against his side.

 _Martin can be saved..._ and Ives had no idea what, if anything, that truly meant. For him, or anyone.


	13. True Regret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that the threat of the werewolves is past, Ives must struggle with the consequences of its aftermath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to our fantastic beta reader, ShebasDawn!

When the blood and gore were finally washed away, Ives _needed_ Artana.

He found her in consultation with the mayor, the latter still covered in blood and sweat from his personal defense of his town and its people, and put a hand on her arm, squeezing tightly. She took one look at him and nodded before excusing herself. "The hour is late, ser, and the day has stretched into the night."

The mayor sighed. "Aye, that it has, Commander. And I have been keeping you from your bed." He stood with difficulty, a thick, blood-stained bandage on his leg explaining the hindrance to his movement, and nodded to her. "I cannot thank you enough, but I think none of us have the energy to worry about it this night."r

"Until the morrow, then." So saying, Artana took Ives by the hand and led him to an unoccupied room.

He pressed her against the door as soon as it closed, latching his mouth onto hers and careless of the smell of dried sweat that clung to her; he intended to make her skin shine before too long, anyway. His hands ran over her armor and reveled in the removal of it, seeking the cool, pale flesh beneath as he sought to reaffirm the fact they still lived and loved, passionately and deeply, and strove to push his doubt well beyond any shadow it might cast. He needed her as the light in his life which drove his darkness away, and it had been a long, long time since he'd felt the need for that light quite so fiercely.

No longer was it a fun little game or a matter of being patient. Ives had done something dramatic and confusing; something which had the potential to hurt a _lot_ of people. The pressure building since he had taken Martin's hand had built so high that if he wasn't able to escape it he would surely crumble. There was only one place he could truly find himself and restore that sort of balance, where he could recover from feeling so completely lost: in the arms of his beloved. There, his heart could filter out all the noise and latch onto something that made sense, promised security, and allowed him to _know_ , without a doubt, that he'd be able to bounce back.

Their clothes and armor clattered to the floor as they moved across the room to the bed, and all the while he continued to worship her with both hands and mouth. Once upon the bed, she pulled him to her, the unspoken command as clear as any of order issued during battle: _take her._ He obliged, allowing the sensations to wash over him as he rode her: the smell of pine in her raven hair, the sear of his hot flesh against hers so chill, the grasp of her strong arms, and her soft moans as he drove her over the edge time and again. He threw himself into the passion of their tryst, knowing that she would meet his needs without question, because he knew if the pure act of making love didn't draw him out of this confusion, he was likely to wallow in it.

It was only after his first release, when they had collapsed onto the bed naked and sweating so he could explore her face and neck with lingering kisses and deep breaths, that he gave a thought to his brother. True, he had left Jean to fend for himself, despite the many jarring events that no doubt had left their mark on the ex-Chevalier. Perhaps it _wasn't_ perfectly fair to claim Artana, but all three knew the relationship shared between them was not perfect to begin with. Ives knew his brother had expressed a degree of guilt for having monopolized Artana in the past few days, but perhaps Ives was selfish to capitalize on that sorrow _now_. Then again, Jean had his own thoughts to contend with concerning both Artana and Isabeau. Maybe his brother _needed_ the time alone... or maybe Ives just wanted to _believe_ that was true.

Whatever the case, Ives was reluctant to leave Artana's side. Though his body yearned for rest, his soul cried for Artana. The night blurred into the wee hours of the morning as he clung to her, alternating between an almost savage claiming of her body and a gentle, worshipful touch. Finally they settled into a deep sleep in each other's arms, a slumber interrupted only when a knock came at the door announcing 'the lady's' bath was ready' just as the pre-dawn light was gaining strength.

"Don't go," he pleaded as she stirred in his arms.

"You know I must." A quiet statement of fact that brooked no argument.

He sighed and nodded, reluctantly opening his arms so that she could gracefully rise and answer the door. For the sake of the attendants he pulled a blanket over his naked form, but his own eyes never left Artana as she directed the two young women where to put the tub of warm water in the room. When they had left, he did offer to help her wash up, but she simply raised an eyebrow and demurred, pointing to her armor with another silent, firm command. He obliged, cleaning what he could without a proper leather cleaning kit and with so little time, but he still watched her, feeling warmth with every little glance thrown his way.

Eventually, of course, even such little pleasures came to an end. Artana, dressed and with her hair gathered in a braid, gave him one final kiss before departing to attend to her duties as Warden-Commander and local war leader. Physically, he felt recharged, relieved beyond measure to have moved past their strictly enforced dry spell. Mentally, however, he was still troubled. By all rights he should have remedied everything by bedding Artana: he should have felt their love renewed, gained new insights to marvel at, and forgotten entirely about that odd moment with Martin last night.

Needless to say, he hadn't. Plain as day he could recall the look in those mismatched eyes - the shock, the confusion, the clear evidence of a man who had never been loved. That shouldn't have affected Ives. It was terribly sad, of course, but at best Ives should hope to _find_ someone for the man. His mind had made a terrible mistake in that distinct thought, though: it had thought instead to _show_ what love was. Now he understood his brother's guilt - it was all _wrong,_ but it was persistent. Through words and deeds Martin had shown himself to be a terrible person, yet Ives had begun to wonder, _is that_ Martin _, though?_ Isabeau's reaction could not be forgotten, after all - and neither could his own.

Clothed, sated, but still mentally frustrated, Ives drew a hand through his hair to straighten it before heading out for a walk. He would have considered it to clear his head, but that seemed an impossibility. Even the walk was unsuccessful - five feet down the hall, he saw Isabeau through a door that had been left slightly ajar. Perplexed by the fact that she was alone, Ives peered down the hall to be sure Martin's door was still shut tight, then stepped forward to peek inside for a better look. He frowned when he saw the beams of the early day shone on cheeks wet with tears which leaked from closed eyes, one streaming down her face even as he watched. Quietly Ives stepped inside and moved nearer her bed, spotting a bowl with a damp cloth resting upon it. Without a word, Ives took up the cloth and leaned over just enough to start gently wiping her cheeks dry.

Her eyes flew open, mouth parted, but she froze when she saw Ives. "Oh," she said. Her voice cracked, and she swallowed a few times before clearing it and adding, "It's you." Her eyes blinked rapidly as she looked around the room, craning her neck slightly, and then she finally relaxed into the pillows beneath her. "Sorry, it's just-" A soft little sigh escaped her. "You are well?"

"Try not to be so disappointed, _chérie_ ," Ives quipped, a warm smile on his face. "I think I may be better than you at the moment. How is your arm faring?" He glanced to where it lay on top of the blanket to her left, the splint covering the entirety of her arm. "Your face is still as perfect as the day before... at least they were considerate enough not to mar your beauty. Thoughtful beasts are by far the most agreeable sort." He winked, carefully moving the cloth across her other cheek before pulling away.

She gave him a meager smile for that, though a line did mar the space between her eyebrows. "It was set well enough, though Livilla seemed to take it personally she wasn't awake to do it to her standards. She fixed it this morning, poor thing, at least as far as making sure the bones would heal well enough for me to fight again. She ran out of strength before she could do more. I'm worried she's pushing herself too much, but sadly I'm hardly in good enough shape to argue about it. She went to see how Mar-." Her voice trailed away, and she stared at the door for a moment. " _Mon gran moitié,_ he- he's... safe, isn't he?" Her eyes returned to his, a silent pleading in them.

It had been on his mind as well. Ives didn't know what Martin's fate was yet, but he did know that the wounds had been severe. After a moment's thought, Ives put the cloth down again on the bowl and sat on the edge of the bed. Extending his hand, he gently cupped her cheek, thumb stroking away a tear that had just slid from her eye. Between her broken arm and Martin, he wasn't surprised to see such a surfeit, but it was a subtle pain to see them nevertheless. When he was sure he hadn't made her uncomfortable with the change of position, he leaned in just a touch to intimate their conversation. "We will do what we can, _chérie_. Even Jean wouldn't want him to die in such a manner."

"Isabeau, I have..." Jean's voice came from the doorway, but it stopped in a way so distinct, Ives didn't need to turn to picture it. He was undoubtedly standing stunned at the door, and if that were the case, Ives presumed Jean hadn't made as much progress in his night of thought as he'd believed. To freeze in the doorway and be unable to form the next syllable from his mouth, Jean did not approve of Ives' closeness to Isabeau, and it was not simply in the name of his code.

"Jean, our dear sister has been crying," Ives smoothly transitioned, letting himself up from the bed. The only way to deflect that anger was to give the man something to fix, and so he offered up the task he'd been at previously. "I need to check on Livilla, so perhaps you could help her out? We were just discussing what might help the pain in her arm." As Ives turned, he saw Jean in a transition between emotions, the shock giving way to furrowed brows and half a frown before changing again to a more centered and intentional calm.

Thankfully for Ives, Jean didn't dare to speak beyond a nod just yet. Ives figured that would be the theme of the evening - a warrior was a creature of momentum. Jean's had been broken, so there was a lull to be expected before he could come up to speed again. It was also fair to say that Jean was rather afraid of emotions since the loss of Cateline. Should he have been past that pain by now? Perhaps, perhaps not - Ives could see several reasons on either side of the argument, and perhaps for his brother, he could best understand those that leaned towards not. It suited him in this particular case, so Ives moved beyond Jean having successfully avoided any manner of altercation. With a pat on the shoulder and a relieved breath once he stepped into the hall, Ives knew the strings of fate must have been tugging him towards Martin.

Or were they? A skinny man with a bloodied apron and a long sleeved pair of light leather gloves, his blond hair tucked up under a butcher's hat, was hurrying down the hall towards him, all the signs of upcoming conversation lighting his face.

"Can I help you?" Ives asked before he could be pinned in return.

"Yes, bless you. Ser, we've injured that need a bed. If ... I hate to ask, after all you've done for this town, but if you've finished with your room, could you clear it so-"

"Say no more." With a hand held up to assure him, Ives admirably took fate's gentle reprimand for trying to insinuate he knew anything at all about its workings and turned to his room. "I'll have it all cleared straight away."

"Thank you, Warden!"

.~^~.

Carrying both Artana's bag and his own, Ives' quiet, considerate entrance to Martin's room was somewhat less successful than he'd originally intended. At least it wasn't locked, the door opening and closing with more far more ease than he had shimmying in sideways without knocking the two bags on the jamb. He entered without talking, expecting his audience to be unconscious, and continued his awkward shuffle to reach the plain wooden writing desk to put down the bags.

Maybe he'd been avoiding looking Martin's direction thanks to some not so subtle internal cues that were probably better described as terrible pangs of fear. It was entirely possible Ives was frightened that Livilla hadn't stayed, leaving him to fight with himself over emotions and words if Martin was alone. And since he was so eager for her to still be there to save him from some of that inner conflict, it was a trifle awkward when he started at the sight of her at Martin's side.

"Oh!" He exclaimed, though he kept his tone hushed. "You are like a ghost, my little blossoming flower. Quiet as one, too. Well... as most."

"Quieter than you at the moment," she murmured, eye closed as she held her hand to Martin's forehead. She looked peaked, as if she had been pushing herself ever since she had awakened. Drawing away with a sigh, she looked at Ives, the barest hint of white darkening to black in her eye as she opened it. "Though I must wonder why you are bringing your things in here. I hardly expect Artana to approve. I suppose, though," she sighed and glanced to Martin, "that his fate will determine when we leave this place. I'd be surprised if he awakens today." A worried look came to her face. "Though perhaps it would be best for Isabeau if we stayed, anyway. Her break was... very bad, lout." She swallowed. "I... will need to rest before I can heal it further."

Was Ives relieved she was here? He didn't have to talk about his feelings to her, at least - she was, thankfully (hopefully), ignorant of them. Though his blue eyes did dance along the man from toe to head, it could be easily claimed Ives was simply taking into account Martin's state. "They needed our room for the infirmed. And if you need rest, why are you still here? You've done more than your share of healing last night alone." When he reached her, he let his hand rest on her shoulder. "I think we have some lyrium potions in Artana's bag. Should I dig one out?" His eyes flickered again to Martin's face, and this time he might argue that he was checking whether their whispering was disturbing him.

"I don't need lyrium," she whispered. She held up her hand and looked at it, grimacing before putting it palm down on Martin's chest with a light touch. "But I do need rest. I managed to heal the wounds on his head - why, I'm not sure - but the rest..." She frowned and glanced down. "He has... more scars than I remember." The comment came almost reluctantly, as if she were loath to admit sympathy for him.

It was a tone that demanded his consideration, and one that caused his eyes to shift again, though this time it wasn't a mere flicker. They lingered, tracing a few of the scars around his neck and the one Livilla had left herself by his lip. "I have no reference for his scars, but I am sure the scars run inside and out. Thankfully, scars are just on the surface, _non_? They cannot forever hide what is beautiful." With his recent revelations about Martin's willingness to sacrifice, he couldn't be certain anymore that he only meant Livilla with such a line. At the least, speaking the line was paired with another shift of the gaze, this time to try and catch Livilla's eye.

Livilla withdrew her hand, but her gaze remained downcast. "And if the so-called beauty is forced to remain hidden?" The words came out so softly that Ives only barely heard them. "Or serves no purpose worth noting? There are things more important than beauty, lout."

Those words earned a pause and a slight tilt of his head as he considered her words. "I imagine that would depend on your definition of beauty, and what it is made from. " His hand reached to rest on her wrist, his voice low as he added, "Strength, self-sacrifice, intelligence, talent - all are beauty, and all are quite important, don't you think? And the heart is always the most beautiful of all things, and I imagine I couldn't get very far in life or living at all for that matter, would I?" By now, the smile could be heard in his tone, and he hoped it was contagious. Her walls were quite tall and quite strong, though, so perhaps he'd only - yet again - served to make her irate. It was a challenge and a balance he had yet to master.

Jerking her wrist away, she shook her head so that her hair would cover her face from his view. "My life serves another purpose than to fit into your words, lout." Still, he couldn't help but notice that her opposite hand was touching where his hand had rested for those brief moments. "And with that, I must be content."

"You survived the night of wolves, my dear dark beauty." _That_ voice came not from the man beside, but the supposedly slumbering form on the bed. Weaker than it had been when last Ives heard it, still it held a fascination that drew the bard's attention immediately to him.

Luckily, it distracted Livilla from noticing Ives' strong reaction. Her eye widened as Martin spoke, and her hands balled into fists. "You... you're awake."

"Which is yet another word I did not expect to apply to me at this time, another being _alive._ " One of Martin's scarred hands emerged from beneath the cover and began tracing over his chest, as if feeling his wounds through the bandages. "And here you are, watching over me as I slumber? I am truly touched and in awe of such care." His hand moved up to his face and lightly traced the skin near one eye. "Yet I seem to recall-"

"I healed it," Livilla said harshly. "I wouldn't condemn even you to look like me."

"Yet, my dear dark beauty, we are so close already, _non?"_ One of his eyes half-opened, letting a peek of green through. "In so very many ways."

Livilla snorted. "I see you haven't changed much. If anything, you're even worse than before."

"Your words wound me as deeply as ever," Martin protested, his other eye opening to display its midnight blue. "How is it again that we have never met in joyous union?"

Livilla's lips pressed together for a moment before she replied, "Those games stopped working long ago. And to answer what you will be unable to ask, Isabeau is fine, though her arm will be useless for a few days." She shook her head and turned back to Ives. "I'm sorry. I thought I could..." She stood up and walked to the door. Pausing with her hand on the frame, she said, "I'll be outside. Breathing clean air."

And she left, pointedly _not_ slamming the door behind her. Ives stared after her, blinking and surprised. "An exciting minute that was! You're very sneaky, and she... ah, lala, well... she is most certainly her own woman. Quite a history you seem to have." Now there was good reason to look at Martin, the task before him as daunting as it had felt earlier. Though Ives had help sliding into a persona suited to the task at hand, inside he was still in a tumultuous battle about the misplaced emotions that had been plaguing him. "And how are you feeling, my unlikely hero?"

Martin grimaced. "Hero? I will leave that to the fellows on their horses at the head of the army, or the ones who have a choice in their actions." He closed his eyes and swallowed, the bump on his throat moving as a subtle tension slowly leaked from his body. "Such a person I most certainly am not. Still, your merry little band, it survived the night? I- I seem unable to recall anyone's fate save for... for my angel and yourself." The voice was strained, the tone obviously meant to be light but failing to be truly carefree.

With a gentle smile tugging at the corners of his lips that was a bit more genuine than he'd intended, Ives assured him, "Yes. Isabeau took the worst of anyone, but Jean kept her quite safe." The rescue had been important. Ives knew he might have been the one who was fooled by the man before him - but _people_ as a topic and consideration was kind of his strong point, so he could always hope he had properly assessed Martin. "If you want to know the final tally, we killed two dozen wolves and more than two dozen werewolves alongside that. I do believe you became personally acquainted with the leader. The town is rattled, but to do such damage to the pack, I think everyone feels as though the curse is lifted. At least for a time to come... and that should be well enough if we pass this way again once we're finished in the North. So all is well, save for the scenery and a ... large shortage of bandages."

"Ah, of course he kept her safe." The statement held no irony, though certainly emotion tinged the words. "That is his nature, _non?_ " His hand went again to his chest. "To protect those who deserve it, and also end the lives of those who deserve it. I am a bit surprised he is not here already. Perhaps you should send word of my awakening."

Ives leaned onto the bed, dark brown-black hair curtaining around his face as he skimmed his eyes over the entire length of Martin once again, taking a more thorough inventory of the wounds than he had been able to in Livilla's presence. "Jean won't fight you unless it's a fair battle, so you needn't worry there. Of course I tell no lies when I have said you were quite heroic, actually. Incidentally..." He looked back up to Martin's face, his glance lingering on the visage long enough for the man's own eyes to open, at which point he smirked and glanced off to the side. A masterful tactic, indeed.

"Incidentally, I'm rather … impressed." So why did his heart _actually_ thrum when it was meant to be just another little play in their game?

"Ah, I'm so flattered, _mon ami_. Most do not applaud suicide with such accolades." Martin's chuckle was brief and faded quickly, locking on Ives for only a few more moments before the mismatched eyes disappeared behind his eyelids once more. "Ah, so so. It is to be you, then?"

"Be me that slays you before you succumb to this terrible creature? Frees you through death from this awful curse?" Ives asked, raising his hand to delicately brush back some of Martin's hair from his forehead. The motion was a reflex, done without any thought, and afterwards he wondered _why_. "Ah, why would I not instead be the one who tells you we yet have a month to try and find you a cure? To tell you we have ropes and chains to bind you should you transform before we find it? I do not wish to offer unlikely hope... Artana's told me that there is no guarantee you'll only … well, to suffice, she has told me that every werewolf curse is different. It will depend on those who have placed it, who twisted the forest spirit, and what their intentions were. Obviously, we're quite hoping that you won't … permanently be in need of a shave, no?"

Martin opened his eyes and turned to meet Ives' gaze, searching his face intently. Finally, with a sad smile, he said quietly, "You insist on letting me live, then. I wonder that I was so mistaken about you, to think you a good man." The hand closest to Ives left the safety of the blanket and tentatively reached out, brushing his fingers down the side of the other man's face as the odd eyes tracked the motion. "There is only one in this life that might miss me when I am gone, _mon ami_ , though you might also miss our, how shall we say, our _sparring_ we have allowed ourselves to become entangled in. Yet for the first time since my first death, I feel she is safe. And..." His thumb rested on Ives' lower lip, brushing it lightly, and again Ives felt that odd pressure around his heart, just as he had the night before. "And I have seen how you gaze at your elven princess, and I know that I can never be worthy of such regard."

 _Perhaps I felt only a pang of guilt rather than flittering attraction,_ Ives reasoned, the mention of Artana certainly having called another such qualm up.

With seeming reluctance, Martin lowered his hand. "You... I had never thought there would be a man to whom I would be able to entrust she who is my soul, and now I have found not one but two. I have not been the best of guardians to the dearest angel of them all, yet I can say that she survived long enough to have met you and your twin." He shrugged, though the motion was clearly an effort. "And with that, I will be content. Pain..." He closed his eyes as he let his head drop into the pillows. "I have heard that there is no pain in the Fade. I am eager to determine if this is, in fact, the case. It is my dearest hope that in this, at least, death and dreams are different."

A smile touched Martin's lips. "Perhaps you could use the blades I gifted to you, _mon ami._ It would be most... appropriate."

Ives turned now that Martin had finished his monologue, gazing out across the room though he remained at Martin's side, letting his hand rest on a spot on his torso clear of wounds. Silence rolled until it matched the pressure which settled on Ives' chest. "Hearing that, what you've said to me... I think it all the more apparent you are not a foul demon- or whatever it is you imagine. I'm not sure why you do what you do, though. I admit, I've yet to be able to figure that out."

His hand drew away from Martin, raising it to his chin so that he could pinch between thumb and forefinger. "But I know you've felt trapped, and I know you've let yourself go. Yet you are still quite observant – and you're right, I do love Artana. I should hope you _can_ see that in the way I look at her. If I could marry her and give her the child she so desperately wishes for, I might do so twice just for certainty." With another pause, filled by a dramatic, weighty sigh, Ives leaned forward so that his elbows rested on his knees. "But... that does not mean I don't or couldn't care for you. I do. It's a shame you have to be in this condition to sit still long enough to listen." The stress mounting now to the point that he simply had to laugh it off, Ives raked a hand back through his hair and chuckled. This was not easy, when it should have been just another mask.

"I beheld between you what I witnessed between Isabeau's parents," Martin murmured, "though perhaps with the roles, as they say, reversed. He was such a fierce warrior, so very stoic save with his little girl, and she was a master of the Game the like of which I have rarely seen. I learned a lot from her." Such was the sadness in his voice that Ives felt a pricking at the back of his eyes. He knew Isabeau's parents had died when she was young, but such grief... "I sometimes almost think you are somehow akin to her, so skilled are you at this... this facade. Please, there is no need. I... I must die." Sweat had begun to pop up on his furrowed brow, and the cords of his neck could be seen, indicating an odd tension, but Ives did not know from whence it came. "There are few things more vile than I, and I think perhaps a werewolf may be among them."

"You talk like a man already dead," Ives complained, a gentle sigh behind his words. "I'm not so willing to give up on you, Martin. What I saw last night, what you've said today... I will never be caught in the lie to say you've done no wrong in your past, but I'm not so convinced the person in your soul is as black as the one who holds the key to your cage. Do you see what I mean? Ah, lala, I've the tongue of the fool, of course you don't. Can't you leave him behind? Why do you let this man do this to you? Make you do these things to put you in so much pain? A werewolf is a terrible thing, yes, but it is a curse. I have seen curses broken or reversed, so you will not convince me that is the reason you should die. Tell me why you would not stand against this master of yours and be your own man? Surely he cannot be more dangerous than you are yourself."

"To be free, must one not yearn for freedom?" he whispered, eyes still closed. "Freedom for one man is another man's terror, Ives Durante." Now his eyes opened, dark blue beside forest green. "I told you, in the long and long ago, the Master gave me a choice. I chose freedom for my angel. And thus, I forfeited my own."

Martin raised a hand and lifted his head to look at it, at the scars on the back of it: straight lines from each knuckle trailing all the way up his arm to disappear under the bandages over the dooming, damning bite. "Every year, after he'd had me at his whim, he added one of these lines to me as well as retrace the ones I already had using a blade laced with a different poison. If I died, ah, so so, I would gain my freedom. And she would lose hers." His hand clenched into a fist, the cords of his neck standing out again as his brows drew together in anger. Then he gasped and seemed to collapse back into the pillow, his breath coming in short, sharp pants for a few moments.

Once he'd recovered his breath, he turned to meet Ives' gaze with his own. "I never died. That was not to be _my_ freedom, not when my dearest one had no one else to keep her free." With a faint chuckle, he began to roll his hand around, as if to ease a deep-seated pain. "Did you know his poisons never fade? The pain stays, you see, no matter how many antidotes you consume, no matter the salves you use, no matter the prayers said over you. I even once held that amulet I took from your dear dark beauty, but it only made me see in the dark. A useful trick, mind," he said, with an amused lift of his eyebrow, "but not suited to my purposes. And so I lived, and so I did as I was bade, and so I served the Master... so that she need not kneel before him as his slave or his toy." He stopped, jaw rippling with anger at the thought, before his face smoothed back into his habitual gaiety.

"Ah, but I have said too much, I think." Martin chuckled lightly. "It is those oh-so-seductive lips of yours. I find it difficult to refuse any request that comes from them, weak as I am."

The emotion was proving too raw for Ives to process easily, and the sheer weight of it was more than he could readily accept. The conversation of the two men had taken on a pattern much like the epics of yore: serious and with surprising depths. "Martin..." Ives said slowly, a tone of consideration in his voice. "... Apologize to Jean for insulting Cateline's honor. Stop going back to this man. What can he really do to you? In the past you and Isabeau flew alone, you failed to have friends. Isabeau finally took to Livilla and her life became the better for it. Protection... An assault squad, if that's what you really wish to consider us. If he shoots you with an arrow from afar and kills you it's not going to be different whether you're with us, or with him. Consider how resilient you've proven to be against death before now... and, besides that, if this next month of your life turns out to be your last, you need not spend it suffering." With a passion to his words, Ives emphasized, "And you _are_ suffering. Just … apologize, join our quest and abandon yours. Once Artana finds this artifact we're after, we'll find another to help _you_."

Ives' hand shifted again, raising once more to brush back some of Martin's hair, newly matted from sweat that had gathered from his high emotions and even more highly taxed body. "You wish to protect Isabeau. Is it not time you did so in a way you wouldn't have to suffer?"

"I cannot leave, don't you see?" Again his neck knotted. "Even now, he... he is doing this to me, this pain." He took a deep breath, and several more followed. "He won't relent. I have found a haven for my angel - or rather, agree that the one she has found is better than I could ever be - and would prefer not to stir the terrible memories of the past by... imposing myself, particularly if it will be for such a short while. The end of such a worthless life... it is time, _non?"_

He hesitated, then looked away from Ives, only his green eye visible from the side. "And, _mon ami_ , though the confession may destroy any semblance of intimacy you may feel towards me, it is a truth that some of the words I imparted to your brother were, in fact, actions that I did. Ah, not the slur on her virtue, of course - that was, as they say, my way to measure his character. But the poison?" A terrible sadness entered his green eye. "That, I cannot deny, though it was not my wish."

Ives closed his eyes at this point, facing away, though he did not stop Martin when the man continued speaking. "Cateline... Her father, as they say, had many enemies. Powerful enemies. And one made a... _request_ of the Master." Martin's sigh echoed in the room. "The death, that was certain. I chose to temper it as I could, to make it as gentle as could be, but the Master was clear: the mother or the children, at the request of his _friend._ That is why I can never be part of your merry little band. I know not why I was made to make that choice, but it was a choice I did make, in the end."

"I admit I would have been a happier man if I were ignorant of this," Ives confessed, not yet daring to peek. He would need a moment to calm himself after that news - Cateline had been the world to Jean. "So he causes you pain when you do not obey him? Surely, though, you _must_ feel regret? You must never take the step that has not been laid out by him? Jean's children are... still safe, aren't they?" He had to admit, the tightness around his chest was different mentioning them - one of fear rather than that affection he had to assume was seated in sympathy.

"He told me to kill the little one, as a warning. I... was able to refuse, and paid for it." Ives felt the bed shift. "The others such as I are _not_ such as I, in terms of skill. Any other he sends will not be able to get so close, now that I have raised the guard. Perhaps that is why I found your departure so convenient - the pain from afar is of a lesser degree than in his presence. For my angel, I can ignore it... for a time." He hissed. "Granted, that was before I became a chew bone for a rather playful werewolf."

"Terrible beasts, but not the end of the world," Ives pressed. "I have killed enough men and women in my life to not wish to do it again. I ... I assure you, Jean will, if he must to protect us, or better yet in a duel for the honor you stole. I just..." With a frustrated noise, Ives opened his eyes again. "Are you _sorry_? Apologetic? Even in the least? You _must_ be." Ives wanted to believe it, almost as much as he wanted it to be true. If it wasn't, it broke everything down, and Ives wasn't sure where the bigger source of betrayal would come from: Martin, or himself. "I ... I feel as though I should _test_ that you do. Are."

Martin turned his head to look at Ives, and Ives felt a chill go down his back as the midnight blue eye landed upon him. "Were I to start weeping my regrets, I fear I would never stop. I am the poison and the poisoned both, _mon ami._ Perhaps it would be best to put me down, _non?"_ For a moment, a look of almost _fear_ passed across his face. "It would be no kindness for me to face what I have done." He drew a finger across his throat. "The dagger, I think, here. Most suitable, for one as sorry and pathetic as I, who cannot even understand the nature of forgiveness."

Heaving another great, dramatic sigh, Ives rose a hand from that iron grip on himself and rubbed his forehead. _"No_ , Martin." After standing stiffly and abruptly he paced the room to fidget, then to get a glass of wine just to have a cup and a pitcher in hand and _do_ something for half a moment. He took a sip, sucked the excess from his lips, and swallowed, though the taste was bitter on a palate unprepared. He'd been clenching his tongue against the top of his teeth so tightly, it puckered him and made his jaw sore. That passed, though the difficulty to speak seemed to linger.

"I am not going to kill you. No one will kill you - at least, not if it isn't an honorable duel. I am not going to kill you _unless_ you are not willing to do what is _right_. Fine - perhaps you cannot yet leave this master's service, but that does not mean you are still _bound_ to him. Be your own man. Make amends - make reparations. Leave the world with these burdens on your soul and you'll haunt the place you die. If for _no one_ else, Martin... Do it for yourself. We will find a way around this pain. I can hardly stand this anymore. I think the test is in order after all. I feel as though I would never get an answer from you."

"You ask one such as I to know right from wrong? Then you have greater faith in me than I have in myself." Martin's hand flexed and fisted as he looked at Ives, and a line had appeared between his brows. "I have no knowledge, no skills, beyond killing and deception. Tell me, my friend, what would be the _right_ thing to do? In words that I could, perhaps, understand?"

"What … What _I_ would do..." Ives said, pacing once more, swirling the glass of wine in his hand. "Which I may consider right in my own way, though I'm sure Jean would find something entirely different... Is find a way to kill this Master. He has you under his thumb, he's making life quite miserable for, well, _all_ of us. I suppose you've already surmised we're continuing north after Hunter Fell... so we're going to have enough trouble with things as it is. Murder this master of yours - or, bring him to justice, as I'd consider it - apologize to Jean, apologize to Isabeau... Make reparation. In fact, continue giving her gifts... but for the love of the Maker, run them by me first. Thumbs, _mon cher_ , are not _sweet_."

He shook his head, as if to get out the memory, and sipped once more at his wine. When he swallowed, he considered a plan in his mind. "Could you convince your Master you've infiltrated _us_ rather than we changing _your_ mind?" The glass of wine abandoned on the table, Ives drew his flute from his pocket, his mind as unable to rest as it was last night. The test he'd mentioned - he wanted to see, for absolute certain, that Martin did have a heart beneath the scars. It wasn't a matter he could prepare before Martin responded, though, so even as the man spoke, Ives was preparing his flute to play.

"I do not convince my Master of anything. However, it might be possible to let him _surmise_ that his interests are best served by my being in your group rather than trailing after you like a bantam with no feathers." Martin's expression grew thoughtful, if still a trifle dubious. "I was rather... _obvious_ in my actions towards you and yours before leaving Val Royeaux, and thus gave him little reason to doubt my loyalty - save, of course, for my deliberate use of the wrong poison on Livilla and Isabeau when we first met. He was ever so unpleasant after that. Perhaps that is why I was so cruel to Jean that morning in the Chapel. When the Master is unhappy, he tends to _share_ it, no?" The hand rose to trace the line of a scar on his neck, and his gaze grew distant as Martin considered Ives' words. "I cannot say such a ploy is perfect, yet it is, perhaps, better than any plan my poor benighted mind could devise."

Ives set down the case of the flute and moved back towards Martin before thinking again, then in a motion as confused as his thoughts, he turned and moved to the door. Interruptions wouldn't be any good, and they were all too likely now that much of the group's supplies were piled in the room. "I have hope. I have been wrong before in my life, of course, but I just ... ah, I have a feeling." _Of course, I also_ had a feeling _just before that bar wench shanked me in the arm that one time, so perhaps they are not always accurate_... A thought clearly best left for another time. "I've been torn on this for longer than you know. The day I would decide whether or not to trust you... a milestone, and a challenge."

Having made his way back over to the bed, Ives sat on the side of it, his thigh along the line of the mattress so that he could face Martin. "So the test: I will play a song to you. Say that I am no good at hiding in the shadows or killing a man without leaving a clue, I would not hold it against you. Perhaps even to say I'm not a good shot with a bow. But this," he said, waggling the flute in illustration before twisting it into its proper position and raising the metal near his mouth. "This is the one thing I can claim with certainty: this song will give me my answer."

"Even my Master could not sully my music," Martin whispered. "I do not know what you intend, but perhaps such a melody would not go amiss."

Ives watched Martin as he blew a slow, haunting note, indicative of the song to come, a tune of melancholy to be sure. There was magic and will woven into the very notes themselves, the most powerful Martin could imagine from an innocent flute. Ives could sway the emotions of entire rooms with his masterful weaving of the fade's resonance into poignant melody. Even those outside the walls of this room would have thoughts of the regrets in their lives if they listened more than a few moments. Poor Martin, to be its target, to be subject so closely to it: if he had even an _ounce_ of regret in his heart, it would be a miracle for him not to cry.

Martin did not turn away, did not look aside. He merely watched Ives, and listened, as the notes emerged from the flute, filling the room. His eyes grew wide at first, and Ives was suddenly taken back to that moment after the Caged Lion when Martin's gaze had changed from killer to _someone else._ The green eye seemed to fill up with moisture first, oddly enough, but only moments later the midnight blue eye glistened as well. When the tears started, they fell clear and pure.

But then something peculiar happened.

The eye of deep blue, which gave Ives odd chills and dark thoughts, began to fade, revealing beneath it an eye of the clearest forest green - an exact match for the other. Ives curiously raised a brow, but continued the song until its end.

When it was done, Ives licked his lips to wet them again. "Well … That was peculiar, now, wasn't it?"


	14. Higher Power

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Music has soothed the savage beast... yet could anyone know what would happen next?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to our fantastic beta reader, ShebasDawn!

With a visible effort, Martin pulled himself into a sitting position, green eyes wide. At first, he simply stared at his hands, turning them over and over as if he'd never seen them before. Ignoring the tears still streaming down his cheeks, he finally lowered them and looked at Ives. His gaze fixed on the bard as if he were a blind man suddenly granted sight, and his lips could not decide whether to smile or frown. "I... I never realized how beautiful you are," Martin whispered. "I feel as if I never truly _saw_ you at all." His hand started to reach up to touch Ives on the face, then retreated, as if unsure. "How could I have missed so very much?"

Ives honestly couldn't remember a moment as powerful as this one. He had been hoping against common sense that Martin could be saved, climbing a veritable mountain of challenges, and now, to realize - to _see_ \- that all of his trials had been justified, all his hunches true... it was potent enough to not be regarded in such a way. A dervish of confusion whirled in his mind from his thrumming heart, and a heat crept up the back of his neck that he hadn't felt for years. With a clearing of his throat and a slight glance sideways, Ives raised a hand to be certain his hair covered the incriminating area under the guise of straightening it. It was long enough for him to get himself under control, at least, and he reached out to mimic Martin's motion. To his surprise, he even, inadvertently, mimicked the hesitation. _Ah, lala, you are out of sorts, Ives. You really must get it together_ , he admonished in his own mind, his thumb finally reaching the stream of tears they'd aimed to wipe away in the first place.

Sadly, he failed to 'get it together,' because when he finally managed to look back into those pure, sad, pained green eyes, his damned heart melted. "I... ah, heh. I had a little script in mind. What was it now... ah, yes. I don't know who you were before the Master that I hope you will leave behind, but I trust in who you will become. I ... would be genuinely surprised if you acted against any of us. As the poets say, 'A man who knows regret is a man who has the will to change.' We - ah, lala, well, we've just the minuscule detail of your, shall we say, upcoming condition? You will be a werewolf with the most lovely green eyes, at the least," he said, a breathy chuckle covering the awkward struggle of his sudden lack of articulation.

"I had two eyes of green once, before my first great sin," Martin murmured. "I last saw both of them on Satinalia eve, in the long and long ago..." The meaning of Ives' statement seemed slow to impact, but when it did, those green eyes widened and he reached up to touch his own face, feeling around the eye which had been midnight blue. "Both... you said green _eyes._ Your song- Your heart-" This time when his hand came up to touch Ives, it did not shy away, settling on his neck with Martin's thumb lying on the bard's cheek. "It is gone, then, the darkness, the... the mark of my Mas-" His hand tightened slightly as Martin's back stiffened. "No. I will no longer call that _bastard_ by that name."

Martin was most certainly getting in far too deep. Ives knew he was excited from the success they'd witnessed, and that he was personally involved with this difficult project of helping the good man within break free. It was a task that fully involved the heart, and his was starting to hurt. This ... wasn't right. Martin fascinated him, Martin _moved_ him, but he wasn't Artana. Just a week ago he was scheming to have her to himself, and just this morning he was reluctant to let her leave him. He _loved_ her. Ives looked off to the side, his hand dragging slowly back from Martin's cheek until it rested limply again on his chest.

"Martin, your eyes are stunning. Your change is heartening. I could not be any more glad and proud to hear you speak against a man that represents so much of your past. I ... mean what I have said: we will search for a cure to your curse if it afflicts you. We will. You feel lighter, more brilliant, and I know that you have a future ahead of you that I _want_ to be a part of. But- I..." He sighed, his shoulders drooping slightly. "You know that I have... obligations - ah, no, I... _Ah, lala!_ I - you know there is another."

Feeling pathetic, Ives glanced again to Martin, wanting to see his face as he responded. At the moment he was just glad he couldn't see his own - it must have been a pitiful blend of furrowed brow and pouted lip, more of his confusion on his face than he'd allowed for weeks.

The hand had dropped from his neck as soon as the word _but_ was spoken, a withdrawal continued in small measures as Ives continued his demurral. Now... well, Martin's face flickered through several emotions, most of them too quick to truly grasp for someone in Ives' state of mind. Ultimately, a light smile settled on Martin's face. "Ah, but of course, _mon ami._ I understand. The Game, it required... yes, a certain amount of _finesse_ , _non?_ I gave you no other way to attract the attention of what I was." He lowered himself onto his elbows, away from Ives, and chuckled. "No need to explain. It was necessary. And naturally, I would not come between you and your... your beloved."

With a sigh, Martin lowered himself to lie on his back again. "Ah, so so, I am quite tired all of a sudden. The weariness, it comes from more than merely wounds. Such freedom as you have gifted me can be... weighty." He waved a hand nonchalantly. "Go, go. I will be fine. Well, better than I have been in many years, wolf bite or no. Enjoy being a hero of the town, _non?"_

Ives stood wordlessly, but he lingered a moment. To a bard like Martin, the struggle must have been obvious. Even as he drew his hand away from Martin the touch lingered, his fingers curling in once they left his scarred flesh. "We ... we'll sort it all out, _ami_. I haven't eaten in a while," he added, somewhat pointlessly, waving his hand in a little circle. He made his retreat to his flute case, never too distraught to forget to put an old friend back in its home. A shame his back was to Martin so that the man couldn't see a recently rare little smirk fight its way onto Ives' lips. A little glimmer of comedic gold had blossomed to earn such a reaction, yet sadly failed to _completely_ thrill him. "Would you like a rare steak perhaps?"

"Ah, no, thank you," came the immediate reply. "I am sure in a few weeks I will be more ravenous than I care to consider. Later, perhaps, _non?"_

Not quite the response he was hoping for. This had become such a challenge. Maybe before he had been _hoping_ for failure to sort out his emotional mess. Now, on the back of success, Ives didn't know quite what to do, what to think, or what to feel. Martin was clearly a changed man, but Ives wasn't so naive or pompous to think he might have 'fixed' him. Maybe... that was part the source of the blessing and the curse - he hated to be finished with his part, with so little excuse or hope to take him farther into recovery. It was undeniable that the next steps had to be Martin's.

His fingers ran over the flute case, one of Martin's first gifts to him, and again he was reminded of the complex nature of the man lying on the bed. Suppressing a sigh, he turned to his pack to put the case inside. As he pushed it into the depths of his bag, his fingers brushed against something within, and for a moment, it seemed as if he could hear the wind in the forest, and the very, very distant howl of a wolf.

Without thought, his hand closed around the amulet Livilla had let him keep, her words echoing through his head: _"They work on a different level, one that is tied to the soul."_ If ever there was one whose soul required some kind of aid...

He frowned as he pushed the amulet quickly into his tunic pocket, not dwelling on whether he thought of Martin, or himself.

"Perhaps later," Ives agreed as he reached the door, and his heart wondered what precisely he meant. "I should say one last thing - a word of caution between growing friends. Jean is a sensitive man with a warrior's temper, and though he does have great control most of the time..." Looking at his wrist, Ives took it in his opposite hand and ran his fingers down it. "Ah, I just think it best you keep your unchivalric trespasses to yourself for a time. I want this friendship to flourish."

With that, Ives opened the door. Just as he moved through it, unable to handle any more conversation for the moment, he gently concluded, "Sleep well."

.~^~.

Somehow, Ives managed to keep his mind relatively blank until he was slumped on a bar stool and nursing his first ... ah, unidentifiable alcoholic beverage. It was disgustingly strong, tasted a little of silt, and made him want to cough, but it was his own fault for being so vague. _So long as it was strong_ , he'd asked, and that much was fulfilled. By the time the flagon was emptied and pressed towards the inside of the worn wood bar to be filled again, Ives let a heavy sigh heave past his lips and propped his cheek lazily on his palm. As he waited for his second mug of poison his eyes dimly scanned the tavern, relatively empty as it was in the midday. Oh, there were a few drunks or elderly unable to work, but three men in a room for a hundred made him feel rather lonely and pathetic indeed.

Ives let his eyes shift down to his hand as he drew out the Wolf's amulet, a far more interesting thing to study. Livilla's words of caution and promise lingered in his mind, as did the bite _her_ amulet gave him, whether or not anyone was of a mind to believe him on the matter. He still didn't quite know what he'd done to deserve that, of course. Would this amulet treat him much the same? When he'd asked about what to do with Martin days ago he'd never received an answer. Now he was intently on his way to drunkenness, and wasn't perfectly sure the answer he got (or imagined) would be from the amulet at all.

As the bartender set his next drink on the counter before him, the click caused Ives to lift his head. His posture changed to face the bar again, the amulet brought to countertop level. "Thank you. I may yet need another if my day continues this way." He smiled to the bartender and took the flagon, drawing it closer. Stopping just shy of taking a drink, Ives noticed something peculiar - the surly man was still standing near him, eyeing the amulet rather than moving on to go about his business.

Apparently noticing the scrutiny, the man straightened and quickly drew a cloth into his hand. "We've all seen our share of wolves' paws around here, and then some. Think you could put that away?"

As good a reason to stare as any, Ives supposed, considering the recent events. "I was just going to move to a corner, anyways. Perhaps I'll be less of a disturbance over there." _Ah, so harsh on the poor man. He's just jumpy,_ Ives admonished internally.

"You ought to bring it up to your room, well away from the skittish folk if you ask me," the man continued, scraping on the nerve that Ives wasn't sure could be contained much longer.

Silently leaving coin and taking the drink, Ives moved away from the bar and found the darkest little corner he could to isolate himself in, sighing heavily once more in a patently dramatic fashion. With the amulet cupped in his hand to protect the apparently fragile-minded few that shared the room with him, Ives raised it so that he could stare into the wolf's paw set upon the back.

The Wolf. How terribly coincidental that he held this particular amulet when wolves were precisely the matter of concern at the moment. A werewolf at least, as it seemed unlikely to him that someone could be bitten by one of those cursed beasts and come out if it without being cursed themselves. Yet, if he were honest with himself, the curse wasn't really the problem at all. It was the man who had been cursed, the man for whom Ives had come to feel more and more sympathy, the one who had made his heart wander. With all his being Ives understood that he should not feel that way, that he should have kept business separate from emotion, but there was just something _about_ Martin.

Yet surely he could not be- To even _consider_ \- A soft groan escaped his lips, but he could not put the amulet aside, the notion that it would somehow aid him refusing to leave his mind. What to _do_ with it, however... "I doubt _mon fleur_ would tell me how to use you for this particular endeavor, _non?"_ he asked the silver amulet in an idle tone.

A chill seemed to pass through the room, and, almost as if she had been summoned, he heard Livilla's voice at the main entrance to the tavern. His brow furrowed as he straightened, looking to it, but he saw her much as she had been the first time he laid eyes on her: dressed head to toe in that smothering cloak. Knowing how she felt with too many eyes upon her, he supposed he could understand the cloak, even if he disagreed with the need for it, but when he saw the blond stranger who accompanied her, he shifted uneasily in his chair.

Too far to hear the details of their speech, Ives quietly pocketed the amulet and reached for his drink as the blond man held out a chair for Livilla before taking his own. A few short gulps saw the drink fully consumed and his courage bolstered enough for him to stand and make his only _slightly_ unsteady way to the table where they sat. When he was a few feet away, he saw Livilla look up at him, the light reflecting from her eye, and frown in the depths of her hood. When he reached the table, she had already stood and bowed to the blond man, and all he heard was her farewell.

"I have much to do. Thank you, ser, for your time."

The man did reach out and take her hand, though it was a friendly gesture without being _too_ friendly, even to Ives' critical eye. "Until next time, _non?"_

Livilla looked at Ives, then pulled her hand out of the man's grasp and fled.

The blond man looked up at Ives. "Ah, you travel with her, do you not? Come, my friend, perhaps a drink will wipe that odd expression from your face."

Ives hesitated, looking after Livilla and wondering why she had beat such a hasty retreat when he had approached. When he turned back to answer, he was met with an open, honest face and bright blue eyes. "Thank you, but I have had a drink already-"

"Then another won't be amiss." The man signaled the barkeep for two drinks, then gestured towards the chair Livilla had occupied. "Besides, I wonder... The young lady seemed to feel better after talking with someone who had an outside perspective. Perhaps you could benefit from the same?"

There was no reason to trust this man. Everything Ives had ever learned told him to be wary of a man offering drinks for free, yet Ives found himself sinking into the chair nevertheless. If he had to continue rationalizing it, he supposed he wished to learn more about what Livilla had to discuss with a supposed stranger. Despite the breakthroughs he'd had with her of late, he woefully felt like the man would be more forthcoming than she. Besides, the man's bright blue eyes were quite charming, and Ives had drunk enough that he felt a certain relaxation in allowing himself to be charmed in a straightforward fashion, as opposed to the morass he was currently wading through. "Ah, lala, perhaps I might, though I must admit quite the burning desire to know what you discussed with the dear Livilla."

The drinks arrived before the man could answer, and the interruption gave Ives a moment to realize that he had been, by Orlesian standards, impolite - and by bardic standards foolish. Before the man spoke in answer to him, he added, "I am Ives. Ives Du-"

"-rante, yes. Livilla told me that my eyes reminded her of a 'most singular fellow' with whom she traveled." The blue eyes danced as the man took his drink and then a generous sip. "You may call me Henri. I do not claim a name more than that, honestly, though I'm sure some would have other, choicer names to call me, from my years as a merchant."

Ives laughed as he took his own mug, though he didn't drink it _yet._ His first two drinks were still warming his body, and he preferred to enjoy rather than descend too far into insensibility... or poor judgment, given his thoughts. "Ah, a good name. We have several in the Durante line, in fact, including the founder of our House."

"Well, there are certainly worse associations," Henri chuckled. "Though the Fereldans do butcher the sound of it so."

That comment got another laugh from Ives. Gradually, the humor and alcohol mixed into a pleasant melange of relaxation, and he settled a bit more in the chair. "Ah, yes. Their stodgy tongue visits such barbarities upon so many of our proud and noble names, _non?_ " He let his head drop back a bit as he spoke to the ceiling, a smile on his face. "Henri, Jean… Even so simple a name as Mar-Martin." His voice only faltered slightly as he brought his chin down, contemplating the drink in front of him.

"The Warden-Commander, though," Henri mused, "Her name is unusual to both languages, as is Livilla's. But then, the ladies are as unique as their names."

Ives took the drink, filling his mouth with the earthy, less than perfect taste as the weight of his emotions welled up once more inside. "Like no other," he agreed, some of that weight lingering in his throat. "A beautiful woman. One who makes me tirelessly chase her and yet still holds the..." Ives again paused, looking down at his flagon. He tilted it to cause ripples in the liquid contained inside, comparing the image internally to the growing guilt as he continued, "...The leash to my heart."

"An unusual description," Henri mused, leaning forward slightly. A hand reached up to tuck an errant lock of blond hair behind his ear, but his expression was earnest. "You sound as if you need to talk about this leash, honestly. Livilla seemed quite convinced that your sun and moon rose and set with Artana. Is this not the case?"

Ives blinked a bit blearily at him. Two full mugs of strong ale were rapidly being joined by a third, and he hadn't been in the best emotional state to begin with. Every bardic instinct spoke against continuing this conversation, but knowing that Livilla - a woman who _still_ did not readily confide in anyone outside Isabeau, to his knowledge - had spoken with him on such matters made him want to clarify where matters stood. The main confusion remained whether the clarification was for Henri, or himself. "She... ah, _mon fleur_ said that? What an interesting thing. I... would not have thought she would describe it in such a way."

Another swallow, and how was he already halfway done with this flagon? "It is true Artana is, outside of family, the nearest and dearest of my heart. Before her... before I met her, I was but a hummingbird in love with the variety of all the marvelous nectar nature could offer. In my youth, there were oh so _many_ beautiful flowers in Val Royeaux and elsewhere." He sighed at the memory, recalling his wild youth with a moment of lustful abandon. "Though sometimes it was my nectar which was tasted, _non?"_

Henri laughed. "And why not? Love is a beautiful thing, _mon ami."_

 _Mon ami..._ Another had called him that today... Pushing the thought aside for the moment, he continued to reminisce, finding the past a safer place to dwell. "Ah, but then my brother settled down, and I began to contemplate the possibility of a single well from which to drink the nectar for the rest of my life, as he had chosen to do. It took years to find the perfect bloom, but eventually I found her: a wild Dalish rose who would not easily answer to my efforts to cultivate her, but her nectar, _ahhh."_ He brought his fingers to his lips and kissed them with a familiar gesture in Orlais: _perfection._ "I, who had been the wild hummingbird, now find myself returning when I can to the beauty of the flawless flower."

Henri tapped the surface of the table thoughtfully. "Hmm, a beautiful image, but not one without questions. A rose has thorns, _non?_ And you say _when you can_ , as if there are times when, indeed, you cannot." He coughed, glancing around the room, then leaned in closer. "And, I cannot help but ask," he said in a lower voice, "yet I could have sworn I saw another like you that was _not_ you embracing the Commander just a short while ago in a manner I would call _intimate_ more than friendly."

 _That_ comment spurred another large gulp of ale, and he looked into the depths of his flagon for a moment before answering. "Ah, well, my brother and I... Artana is a woman of such personality, such wonder, that she can- I do not mind when-" He faltered after a few attempts at speech, cursing now the warmth of alcohol spreading through his body. _Martin would laugh, to see a bard at such a loss for words._

A dangerous thought, yet again. Heaving a great sigh, Ives looked up into the bright blue eyes, trying to concentrate on the matter at hand. _Artana._ "I recall that part of my life when I first came to adore Artana so very clearly. I did not know of my brother's interest, after all, as he still seemed to be in mourning for the dear, departed Cateline. His wife," he added by way of clarification, then wondered if, somehow, the man already _knew._ Dismissing the thought, he continued, "Jean was drawn to her fierceness in battle, her intellect, her beauty, her..." Ives trailed away, not wanting to announce the Durante's preference for elves quite so baldly, and finally settled for, "...unique nature." There, that was safe enough. "And it is a powerful connection. Yet for myself..."

A smile came to his lips, as he recalled the growth of his own love for Artana. Aware that the alcohol was making him more talkative than normal - with a stranger, no less, he reminded himself - he nevertheless continued. He loved the topic well, at any rate. "Ah, I was _attracted_ to her, for she has great beauty, but it was more than her appearance which drew me in. She lived simply, even after she became Warden-Commander - unlike some we have had in the past, I assure you. I learned that she had some... interests outside the Wardens which coincided with my own." _At least I didn't call us both_ thieves _,_ he thought with a smirk. "And her heart for those in need! I remember so clearly the first time she saw the squalor of the Alienage in Val Royeaux..."

Henri's face hardened. "I have been there. It is, if you will forgive the words, a Blight upon Val Royeaux."

Ives nodded thoughtfully before swallowing the last of the ale in his flagon. _"Oui."_ Though the Vhenadahl in the center of the Alienage grew tall and proud, it was situated in the bottom of a gorge and left little room for the actual elves. He shuddered at the thought of the hundreds of wooden shanties in the cliffsides around the tree, linked together by a veritable jungle of wooden catwalks and ragged ropes. Even worse was the pervading sense of hopelessness, particularly in the lower levels of the Alienage. "Those who can escape do so. Those who cannot... those were the ones she aided, the ones who had no hope and no way out. She gave them all she had, even when-" He stopped himself, suddenly not wanting to voice any criticism of Artana.

"Even when-?" Henri prompted, proving he had been paying attention, both to the words and to what drove them. "The thorns make their appearance?"

"Ah, no no, nothing like that," Ives hastened to explain. "It is simply that she does not consider spending the money elsewhere, not even for... for herself. She has a cause, a path to follow, and sometimes she forgets to care for herself along the way." He blinked when a hand snagged the empty vessel away and plunked a full flagon down in front of him, doing the same for Henri. The distraction was only momentary, as was the sip he took. Floating in the pool of relaxation, and the growing belief that Henri truly was _interested,_ he finally admitted, "That is why she needs us, I think. She gives so much of herself to others, it seems unfair that she not receive a measure of love in return. When I met Jean on the way to Artana, that first night, to confess my love to her, she refused to choose one over the other if it meant the end of our relationship. She insisted that being with her would, would..." He trailed off, frowning at the ale.

"...bring you closer together?" Henri prodded when Ives had been silent for a while.

"Hmm? Ah, yes." At the time, it had seemed a brilliant idea. As children and early in their youths, the brothers had been closer than close, always together and sharing every aspect of their lives, including nights in the infamous parties of Val Royeaux. Until... "We had a... a _misunderstanding_ , Jean and I, one we could not overcome. After that, he got married and I... I joined the Court as a Bard, eventually, though later we joined the Wardens together. Yet we met Artana independently. I never suspected he would... or that she would..."

His brow furrowed. At the time, the idea of sharing Artana, of letting her decide who would grace her bed, _was_ brilliant. And it had worked, in the sense that the brothers had indeed grown closer together again after their long separation. Yet the triangle of their relationship was not perfect, and lately, a bit more strain seemed to be entering the equation. "I... We thought she would eventually choose, I suppose."

"And she hasn't, but expects you to stay on her leash?" The question was quiet, but pointed.

"Yes." The admission surprised him, to acknowledge it in such a manner, but also was a bit of a relief as well.

"The leash, it... prevents you from going where you wish?" Henri tilted his head slightly. "Or, perhaps, from going with whomever you wish?"

Ives closed his eyes. He _loved_ Artana: the look of her, the feel of her, the generosity of her heart, the... the _whole_ of her. Her constant fight against the taint which threatened her inspired him, and her selflessness shone light on aspects of himself that he was less than proud of, allowing him to take pride in certain activities that otherwise would have merely been dark spots upon his soul.

Yet never would she allow Ives to express an interest in Martin, even if it were just to see if the odd new feelings were merely a fleeting and childish crush, an echo of the indiscretion of his youth. He could protest his love to her as loudly or as passionately as he possibly could, but she expected complete devotion from them, that much he knew with a certainty. Though her heart belonged to two men, she expected theirs to belong to her alone.

And, Ives admitted, deep down in that darkest part of his heart which had never been shared with anyone, that might no longer be true.

Not since a certain pair of green eyes had met his own bright blue ones, at any rate. His heart thrummed at the mere memory of it. Could it just be a crush? Perhaps, but he desperately wanted to know whether or not it was.

 _Does the leash hold me too close?_ It had been the question Henri had presented him, a question Ives had been avoiding since entering the tavern and taking his first sip of strong, earthy ale. _Do I want to fall under the spell of that beautiful green gaze, at least for a time? To find out the answers to the questions that plague me, to know_ who _Martin is, beneath the scars, curses, and poisons?_ He took another deep drink, acknowledged the _Yes_ which drifted through his mind, but had a smile on his face when the flagon hit the table. "Ah, no, of course not. Livilla was correct, _non?_ My sun and moon rise and set with Artana. What more could a humble little hummingbird wish?"

_Perhaps to find someone who can live with you in those deep, dark shadows within? And who has the same shadows himself? Who understands that those shadows need not define his deeds..._

"As long as you are content, then." Henri smiled and raised his drink. "To the hummingbird, then: may it forever find the sweetest of nectars."

Ives forced a chuckle as he responded in kind, though in some ways he was more confused than before. Detailing the problem out loud had only made him realize how deep it ran in his being. "To the hummingbird," he murmured, drinking deep as Henri did, finding the bottom of the mug with a bit of a shock.

"Well, I am glad you feel so content. For a moment there, it almost seemed as if you would need the aid of some higher power, _non?"_ With a final sip, Henri finished the last of his ale. "Well, I won't keep you. In fact, I was wondering if I could find Livilla once more to make sure she does not push herself too hard. She strikes me as one who gives far too much of herself." For the second time now, his eyes moved to the door through which Livilla had retreated. "Such a lovely woman. Even her taste in decoration with that simple yet provocative amulet of hers..." He suddenly coughed, looking a trifle abashed. "Ah, not that I meant- Do you have a message for her? I would gladly carry it for you."

The image was as fuzzy as his mind at the moment, but Ives paused in thought, an image from as far back as the gates at the Val Royeaux Wardens' Keep flitting through his mind. A man with blonde hair leaning against the bars, in animated conversation with Livilla... a conversation Ives had sadly failed to overhear. "Have you... met her-?"

"No message, then? I will bid you _adieu_ , and pray you continued success in your flight... er, journey." The man winked as he rose. "Perhaps we shall meet again, _mon ami, non?"_

And with that, Henri walked away, hands reaching up to tie his blond hair into a queue as he walked to the door.

Ives stared after him, blinking a time or two as his mind attempted to figure out if he'd been close to a significant discovery or if he'd just been imagining it somehow. Eventually he filed the matter away for later consideration - _sober_ consideration - and turned back to his regretfully empty mug with a sigh.

The comments Henri had made, however, did eventually penetrate his mind, though his hand wandered to the amulet in his pocket before his thoughts did. _A higher power... Simple yet provocative amulet... Pray..._

 _Pray... to a higher power..._ He took the amulet out and stared at the wolf's paw stamped into the silver, and again felt the faint chill of a cold wind wash over him. Not the most _promising_ of signs, perhaps, but then it was still _more_ of a sign than he had ever received from the Maker. _Perhaps..._

Yet... what would he ask for? Artana's possessiveness had its charms, though he did not personally hold to such strictures, and he had no wish to _change_ her, per se. He wanted... he wanted...

A soft sigh escaped his lips as the memory of that last kiss he'd shared with Martin made a shiver run up his spine. It had been a mere hint, but that hint had wedged itself under his skin and refused to move. He suddenly realized that he'd raised his fingers to touch his own lips and quickly dropped his hand. _Ah, lala, I am acting like a moonstruck fool,_ he mused as his thumb ran over the surface of the silver _._ As the flesh touched the imprint of the paw directlyl, a moon entered his mind, heavy and red with portent, and his eyes widened. _So there is someone there, as Livilla said._

A snort echoed in his head, and his eyes widened further even as his hand closed around the amulet. _Not here. Then where...?_

With no destination yet in mind, he stood and stumbled from the room, hoping the four ales would explain his sudden clumsiness rather than his haste. He moved through the inn, quickly dismissing room after room until he emerged into the sunlight and stared pensively at the sloped roof where the horses rested. _Hmm... Yes, no eyes there I need worry about in case... In case of what, I do not know._

The stable was dim within once he closed the doors behind him, the horses taking their rest after dragging cartloads of bodies to bonfires all morning. As he passed by the horses, he laid a friendly hand on Carrot's neck, smiling at the wicker he received in return, and paused when he saw another black horse standing next to Ebony. He approached the stallion, but the horse simply stepped back, watching him closely with eyes that almost looked red. _The light is playing tricks on my eyes, that is all._ Dismissing the reticent steed from his mind, he found what he was looking for at the far end of the stable.

Two minutes later saw him shimmied up the ladder to the hay loft and settled deep into some loose hay. Taking a deep breath and trying to collect his thoughts without falling asleep instead, he opened his hand and stared at the amulet.

He gasped when he saw that, despite the dim light, the amulet shone as brightly as if in the daylight. "Mak-" he started to exclaim, but a growl cut him off. "Ah, my apologies, Fen-Fen'Harel." The growl subsided, but the sense of being watched did not. Clearing his throat nervously, Ives began, "I am not sure what to-"

 _Then you have already begun your prayer with a waste of my time,_ came a response, a voice deep and rumbling, as if out of a beast's maw. Ives startled, not sure what he'd expected but certain it wasn't such a terrifying sound. "Ah..." he failed to summon anything on the back of the reprimand, his mind somehow blank and bursting all at once. As the thousand thoughts that had been swirling around him today gained momentum, Ives felt as though he could hear them all in a tumultuous, growing wind. It pressed on his ears while the light of the amulet grew until he had to wince away from it, blinding white and enough for him to close his eyes.

The moment he did, all the pressure and all of the sound went away, replaced by the tickle of long grass on the back of his legs, the whispering of pines, and a quiet, steady breathing that belonged to lungs at least as large as he was. It was unfortunate that his sobriety had chosen that moment to return somehow as well. As he gulped and fretted before opening his eyes again, Ives really wished that he was still drunk.

A great black shadow was across from him. They were in a clearing of some sort, a giant moon looming above - full, though they had left that behind them last night - and lush grasses below. The pines around them seemed to form a wall, thickened by a carpet of barbed thistles that made escape from the dark shape impossible. Ah, yes, how he wished he hadn't opened his eyes. Now his imagination didn't have an escape from calculating the sheer size of the thing before him, and he was no calmer when an eye twice the size of his head, gleaming and yellow, opened and glowed against the dark.

"You're real," Ives spat, not sure why _those_ words were the only ones that could come from his mouth. He was so overwhelmed - so _stunned_ \- that perhaps it was a miracle he'd managed any words at all. A breeze could have toppled him. Now that his eyes were open, they couldn't have been wider. Now that he'd seen power and stared at a creature far too powerful to be something so paltry as a demon, Ives didn't quite care that he was yet again proving to be the world's most inarticulate bard. His entire world had just changed - a prayer had been _answered_ \- a god _existed_.

"If you were not who you are, I would devour you for this intrusion. In any other, this request would be petty." The shadow shifted, and Ives (still just narrowly avoiding hyperventilation) had to tilt his head back to take in the full form of the pitch black wolf. "In fact, it is still petty," he growled, "but it is what he woke me to do."

Ives was honestly concerned that the earlier threat about eating him was more a possibility than he'd like to admit. He was still in awe, too - the Maker had never once come close to showing himself in his life, and it was quite an impression to suddenly be of personal interest to a god. "Who- who I am? Who woke you? I ... I am grateful, but I am not the most deserving of men in the world. If I had known praying would perturb you, I wouldn't - I mean to say, I suppose I didn't expect..."

As the Wolf lunged forward, Ives finally tripped over his own feet. It had been a looming threat since the Wolf had first risen up to his full height, and now Ives was truly afraid: he was prone, in front of the largest of predators he had ever encountered, and the Wolf's snarling maw was just inches from his face.

"A response? Pray to the wrong god and you will receive nothing but silence. Ask too much of the gods and you will drive them from the world. Almost any scenario in the realm of possibility has played out at least once in this world... but all you wish to know is how yours will play."

Ives couldn't have formed words if he tried by this point, the unknown too oppressive for him to dare acting one way or the other. At the moment, all he knew was that to stay exactly where he was had not yet caused death, so he maintained that position intently.

The Wolf drew back slightly, allowing Ives enough room for him to draw in a breath. "I, too, admire a woman who speaks only of paths and their adherence."

The tone disarmed Ives, causing him to again look upon the Wolf with wide eyes. It was _longing_ , a state with which Ives could wholly empathise. Since the god had looked off into the forest around his glen, Ives found it easier to sit up and relax. With the presence of emotion, suddenly the otherwise terrifying beast had an element that Ives could understand, a minor thread of commonality.

"Your path is set. You would follow it with or without my help - your heart will find its desire, your brother will again..." Here the Wolf paused, as if considering the word to say, his head ever so slightly tilting, "...wed, within your human culture. You will not see the trail clearly until you have reached a city you will not soon after forget: the Old Gods' city, the one known to you as Minrathous." He had made his way to the other side of the clearing, and at this point sat back down on his haunches. "For this knowledge you must do my bidding: ensure the amulet you hold in waking is given to the one you know as Martin this night. On your journey, a second gift will be given to you, and a second price will be paid. I await the fruits of your cooperation."

Just as Ives was certain he'd locked the prophetic words into memory, the question he meant to ask the Wolf in return was stolen away by a gasp as the ground beneath his feet shifted. With one huge lurch, it gave out beneath him, the depths swallowing him whole. All the terror that had faded away after the Wolf became a personable being returned with a rush of blackness and sound as everything dimmed into darkness.

Ives shouted as he jerked awake, a searing heat on his chest. The amulet was touching skin near his heart, and the pain got _worse_ when he saw edges of black creeping up where he had vowed it would never appear. The pattern was incomplete, but the shape was familiar to any Orlesian, and certainly not of a Wolf's paw. The secret that could not be named, the one thing that had ensured he and Jean had not parted ways for all time... No, surely the Wolf would not demand _that..._ "Oh, nono, go away, go on," he uttered with urgency after he snatched the amulet away, patting and rubbing the skin, his chin tucked back so he could look at the patches. "I haven't said anything," he complained, and relaxed only when the black faded in the absence of the amulet.

The breath of relief only lasted a short moment. _The amulet._ The Wolf had demanded he deliver it to Martin tonight, and Ives wasn't sure how close night was at this point. The gravity of _meeting a god_ was still settling in his head, but the urgency hadn't faded. Ives scrambled to right himself in the hay, his footing giving out just as he neared the edge of the loft. His impact with the ground was rather unpleasant but his nose thankfully survived it intact. Leaving the stables and its occupants behind in a blur of hurried steps - and ignoring a whinny that seemed suspiciously like a laugh (as it was no doubt his imagination) - Ives sprinted across the grazing yard with dirt covering his front and hay in his hair.

True, he still had questions for the Wolf, and true, he still didn't know what the second gift or second task would be, but surely this delivery was his first price to pay? _Ah, lala, I hope, I would hate to have misunderstood him._ It was strange: all he had done in the Maker's name and all he had supposedly _known_ from the Chant to be true about the Dalish gods' nonexistence now rang so false, and here he stood, a converted man. Perhaps not to the religion as a whole, but certainly converted in thought - having met an actual _god_ , he felt more faithful than he had in the better part of a decade or two. To play the village idiot for a time in return for that spiritual certainty he had longed for seemed a minor cost added to the task of delivering an amulet.

Ives rapped on Martin's door before he recalled that it wasn't locked, surely not aiding the wild appearance he had when opening the door in such a rush. Worse yet, he closed it behind him immediately with a sharp clap that certainly would have woken Martin if the previous noises hadn't.

When he turned he found that he had likely not woken the man, since the bed was unoccupied. Following a movement in the corner of his eye, he turned to find Martin standing in front of the window, gazing out at the setting sun with an odd look on his face. He was fully dressed and with no visible bandages, and behind him a tray of food had been put onto the table next to the bags, then forgotten. "I find the transition from day to night among the most beautiful of times, _mon ami._ Do you not feel the same?"

"You haven't eaten," Ives blurted first, and he wasn't entirely sure why _,_ among all the events of this evening, _that_ was the first thing that came to mind. He shook his head, a few stray pieces of hay taking the opportunity to fly away and flutter towards the ground. "Here. I'm supposed to give this to you tonight." He held the amulet at arm's length as he hurried across the room, his rush as odd as the fact he'd given no reasons. "I wasn't told why, or what the amulet usually does, but I think... I _believe_ it's going to help."

Martin turned to look at him, the faintly puzzled expression on his face gaining the addition of a grin as he took his hand away from the window frame and reached out to pluck a piece of hay from Ives' hair. "Hmm, you weren't told this by a black horse, were you?" Then his green eyes lowered to the actual amulet, and he frowned without taking it. "This... this is the amulet I first took from my dear dark beauty, the one that allowed me to see in the dark." He wrapped Ives' outstretched hand with his own, tilting the entire hand so he could get a better look. After a moment, he brought up his other hand and took the amulet, his fingers brushing Ives' wrist and palm as he did so. "Thank you, _mon ami._ Whether or not it can _help_ me, of course, it will still bring a smile to my face to know that you thought of me, _non?"_ He smiled tentatively, his hands still close to Ives. "Perhaps you could help me put it on?"

Ives hesitated. It was in part because of the touch, the contact, all paired with such an expressive face that it seemed to belong to a different man than the week before. It still amazed him. That wasn't the whole of the cause, though. Ives was honestly a little frightened of what the amulet would do to 'help' Martin considering the fact it was offered by a wolf, was marked with a wolf's paw, and was being given to one who had been bitten by a _were_ wolf. "Ah ... Of course," he offered finally, stepping a touch closer. "I've had an impossible evening, yet I mean that in the best of ways," he said, working the clasp while Martin held the actual amulet still. "Are you a religious man, Martin?"

Martin's eyebrow rose even as he leaned down slightly. "I cannot say that I am, no. My training lay elsewhere. Perhaps such a thing would be of use now that I am facing... Ah, there you go." He released the amulet as Ives opened the clasp, reaching up to hold his hair out of the way and leaned down a bit more - and a bit closer to Ives. "As you will."

It was only in this moment, when they were so close that Ives could count Martin's breaths, that Ives realized the Wolf hadn't said anything specifically about Martin at all. The Wolf had promised Ives would get his heart's desire, and that Jean would 'wed within in the human culture,' which was not a ceremony Artana gave any mind. So he had supposed that to mean Jean would be involved with a particular short-statured human, Ives himself would be with Artana and... well, if he was able to get his heart's desire, did that mean something would work out between him and Martin, too?

Ives stared at the amulet after it was in place around the man's neck, felt him so very close, and hoped against the little bout of paranoia that had just welled up inside him. What if his heart's desire sorted itself out because Martin died this night? Ives was loathe to leave such unfinished business, would hate to give him up without seeing him make the best of the opportunity he was given.

In short, Ives couldn't stand it. He closed the small gap between them, grasped Martin's stubbly, scarred cheek, and drew him in for a kiss that would pass for a goodbye if that was what it came down to. He hoped not. He prayed not, in fact, even though the kiss left the air between them awkward. Without wanting to actually _say_ goodbye, Ives stepped back, looked Martin over one more time, and fled the room before the redness could creep up his neck, or the confusion reach his brow.


	15. A Matter of Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin struggles with the concept of freedom and divinity when he is confronted by Fen'Harel in a dream.

The door closed on its own, as much due to the weight of the wood on its metal hinges as to any force imparted on it by Ives' hasty retreat. Martin stared at it, feeling the unfamiliar sensation of uncertainty settle over him. His fingers reached up to rest upon his lips, and he groaned as the mere memory of the kiss awoke an echo of the ache that was at once both familiar and entirely new. A pure physical reaction he understood - all too well, thanks to his former Master, the Bastard - but _desire?_ Beyond that, desire for something as simple as an embrace, much less a kiss?

Kissing in and of itself was a rarity in his life, something used to denote authority over another. The first time a kiss had actually _meant_ something beyond a test or a claiming had been the night of the Caged Lion, when that odd - at the time - sensation to experience _more_ than dominance had awoken within him.

"Ah, so so, why does it feel like my life just got more complicated?" he mused softly.

With a glance at the window, Martin remembered quite keenly how so very _inviting_ the world beyond had been but a few short minutes ago. A simple solution, and certainly one of the few available to him for an outright escape from the situation into which he had awoken following his struggle with the werewolf. His hand tightened into a fist as the moment of his angel's vulnerability again flashed through his mind. The instinctive need to _protect_ her had overpowered even the Bastard's orders to let her fall if it meant risking Martin's own life.

Martin's interference had been an act of outright defiance rare to him, given the nature of his training, his past, and the one he had once called Master. Bending the rules, resisting commands, presenting himself as a target rather than another... These he had done many times, to stand between Isabeau and the Bastard's obsession. HIs hand moved to the bite on his shoulder that refused to answer to Livilla's healing and squeezed, enhancing the pain as a reminder to himself what _could_ have happened to his angel had he not performed the final act of defiance. Far better for the world to be without Martin the Shadow, certainly, than to be without _her_.

"And if this bite is not my end, my defiance surely will be," he mused. He had hours, at most days, before the Bastard learned that his allegiance had changed, though Martin had not known that the spell laid upon him could be broken. Granted, he had not even realized that he had been so subtly altered by magic, had not even remembered that he had once sported matching green eyes before the Shadows. _Music truly soothes the savage beast._ He suspected it would take many moons before he knew the full truth of why the spell had been vulnerable, and, if he remembered the lore correctly, he only had a few weeks at the most before chains or the blade were in his future.

He shuddered as another pain wracked his body. Quickly he quelled the reaction. Pain, after all, was an old, old acquaintance, one he could experience or discount at need - unlike the new, familiar ache loosed by a certain pair of lips...

A quick shake of his head dismissed the thought as violently as he wanted to keep hold of it. The conflict made him stagger, and he caught himself on the edge of the small table next to the window just as the door opened.

Martin turned to find a cold black eye regarding him, though he offered only a sad smile in return for the hostility. "My dear dark beauty."

Livilla's eye narrowed, then went to the untouched food tray. "You haven't eaten."

It was an effort to keep his smile in place after that, considering who had last uttered those words in his presence. "You are not the first to make that observation. I was not hungry. I assume the ravening does not begin until after the fur grows in, _non?"_

Though he read the intention in her body long before she crossed the space between them, he did nothing to defend himself from the slap that cracked across his face. _"Ar nuvenin na'din, seth'lin._ But not like this. Not to the curse of fur and claw." She stepped back, absently rubbing the pain out of her hand. Martin's head rang: Livilla had _not_ pulled her blow, and she was stronger than she appeared. "And not if it means pain to Isabeau, though I cannot understand why she _still_ feels sympathy for you as she does."

"Nor do I," he agreed. He subsided when her glare settled on him, not wishing to antagonize her further. Granted, the fact of his continued existence was an affront to her, and understandably so considering how many times he'd tried to take her life. Of course, now that his curse was lifted, he had to wonder if he had not been sabotaging himself, even back then.

The mage had already turned from him and picked up the tray of uneaten food. "Just put the new tray there, Henri."

A blond man came through the door, carrying more food on a tray. "As you wish." Martin watched the man closely as he came in and put the tray on the table. He... _smelled_ wrong, but Martin could not pinpoint why. "Here, let me take that down to the kitchen for you. No sense for you to go back there again when you said you wanted to check his wounds anyway." Henri plucked the tray from Livilla's hands before she could answer one way or another. "Meet you downstairs later?" After Livilla's startled nod, he turned and left the room, whistling aimlessly.

Before the sound had faded from hearing, Livilla was in front of Martin again, tugging at his shirt impatiently. "Allow me," he murmured, gently taking over the duty.

She subsided until the shirt was put aside, her eye flicking over the scars on his torso. When the shirt was off, she reached up and worked at the bandage on his shoulder, her fingers taking more care than her words. "How could you keep returning to him? I never returned to the ones who did it to _me._ "

He kept his silence as the bloody linen came free, knowing she would be distracted by what lay beneath. As for the answer to her question... _I returned to the Bastard to protect Isabeau from him. Alone, you were not enough protection, my dear dark beauty. Now..._

He glanced at the window again. _Now, she has found those who can protect her even from my fellow Shadows._ Yet here he was, trying to resolve the conflict between leaving Isabeau with those he now trusted to keep her safe, and staying long enough to know if a certain pair of bright blue eyes would ever look at him again.

Ives had _not_ given Martin the resolution he sought.

Martin's hand moved to the amulet as he again thought of the kiss which had accompanied it, drawing Livilla's attention to it and away from the rather rancid wound on his shoulder. Her eye narrowed. "Where did you get that?" she snapped.

He wrapped his hand around it protectively. "It was a gift. From... from Ives."

Her eye went up to his face, though now it was more thoughtful than angry - a change which surprised him. "Did he say anything... odd when he gave it to you? Or did he... have a price of some kind?"

The inquiry caught him off-guard, since he was thinking rather more of what had happened _after_ the amulet had been bestowed than what had come before that. "Ah, a price? No, no price, though he did... he did inquire if I were a religious man." He forced himself to chuckle. "He does not know me as you do, my dear dark beauty, or he would not have asked such a thing, I am sure."

He'd expected her to stiffen and leave, or turn her attention to his wound with compressed lips. Instead, she stared at his face, her one eye boring into his two even more effectively than a pair might have normally. Her hand reached up to take her own amulet, and suddenly he felt a cold wind blow through the room, sharp and chill. "Maybe I don't know you at all," she whispered.

Before he could do more than open his mouth to reply - though he honestly did not know what he would say - her eye had turned to the bite on his shoulder and flared white.

It took all his strength not to fall to his knees as far more healing energy than she'd ever given before flooded him. It was almost like icicles in his blood, the surge was so strong, and a gasp was forced from his mouth.

When the sensation faded, leaving him dizzy and gulping air, Livilla was left frowning at his shoulder. Her fingers lightly reached up to the swollen red flesh, but the toothmarks were still raw and livid. "I'm sorry." And for a wonder, she did sound apologetic, at distinct odds with her attitude a few minutes before.

Martin reached up and touched his amulet, wondering at its seeming influence: first with Ives, then with Livilla. "It is a cursed bite," he said gently. "I cannot expect you to cure such as this." _Hope,_ perhaps... but he still wondered what would truly happen when his time came. "Thank you for the food and the... the attempt."

She remained silent while she bound his shoulder once more, but her eye kept glancing up at him. Finally, as she settled the bandage into place, she again reached up to her amulet. "Don't... don't give up. For all that I don't understand it, Isabeau would be devastated if you died. Besides... I could be wrong about you." The next instant, she'd gathered the old bloody bandages and started towards the door. "Maybe."

He stared after her as the weight of the door closed it once more, The constant hum and melody of pain which served as a background to every waking moment dimmed as he poked at his shoulder, overridden by the sharp snarl of the wound's unhealed state, and he sighed. Legend only said the bite meant a fate of fur and fangs. He had no clue when it would occur, or if he would ever lose the fur once it set in. Perhaps his first instinct had been correct, the impulse which had driven him to the window: to simply vanish into the forest one day when his skin started to itch, or... or whatever the signs of becoming a werewolf would be. It would be simple to end the matter, after all, with his... with his...

His hand slapped to his hip, and his eyes sought the small table next to the bed, instinctively searching for his daggers. One of them he could easily forge anew, but the other one... He might _need_ the other one, if he survived the next month or so...

And he'd left them in the carcass of a werewolf who had likely been burned while he slept.

" _Merde,"_ he cursed softly.

A knock came from the door, and his head turned as a face framed by blond hair poked through. "Oh, young master, I almost forgot. The local blacksmith asked me to give these to you. The people of Hunter Fell were quite impressed with your actions, and thought you might like them back... clean, of course."

Martin stared at the daggers in Henri's hands. The long dagger with the serrated edge and the hooked tip got a mere glance. His hand reached out and grabbed the smaller one, the one which seemed to be for the most part unremarkable... until one noticed that the blade turned black when exposed to light. Relieved to see it intact and unblemished, Martin directed a rare, unforced smile to the man before retrieving the second dagger. "Ah, I will make a point to thank your mayor and blacksmith for their thoughtfulness."

"Oh, they are not _my_ mayor or smith, young Martin."

Martin raised his eyes from the daggers to meet the bright blue eyes. "You are not from Hunter Fell?"

"Hmm, no. A bit further south. It was good to meet you." Henri reached for the doorknob, but paused just before actually pulling the door closed. He let that look linger til Martin simply couldn't avoid noticing the sense of mischief within. A perfectly timed wink caused one of those bright blue eyes to disappear for a brief moment. "Tell me something: _are_ you a religious man?"

And then he closed the door, leaving a rather dumbfounded Martin staring at the wood.

.~^~.

The night held no promise of rest, even once he'd stopped staring at the door and lain down in the bed to instead gaze at the ceiling. His hand kept stealing up to the amulet, a finger tracing the outline of the wolf's paw on the silver so many times he lost count. He dismissed the growing chill in the air as he did so, assuming it was coming in through the window that he'd left open despite a lessened temptation to take advantage of the freedom thus offered.

His mind began to drift, a familiar lazing through his thoughts which meant sleep was near. Instead of memories of his past to torment him, however, he found himself remembering odd things, from that period of his youth when he still lived with Isabeau and her parents,

_A horse ride on the de Brienne estates which ended with him carrying Isabeau on his back for over five miles, accepting the scolding from the adults while Isabeau - who had spooked the horse in the first place - sat quietly by the fireplace at his insistence, enjoying the hot chocolate he'd prepared for her._

_A trip to Val Royeaux, before the Bastard had entered his life, in which he had snuck into the Grand Cathedral and used a small nodule of coal to give the portraits of several rather important figures the darkest, most glorious beards his nascent artistic ability could manage. He had, he recalled, been particularly proud of Andraste's mustache_.

Little moments of mischief and trickery, minor and major, borne of a light-hearted spirit and innocence that now seemed distant and unrealistic, as if from a fairy tale... or the Fade.

He slipped into slumber just as his hand came to final rest upon the amulet, the world around him retreating into an unfamiliar darkness. Usually he only truly slept on the road, in the company of his night-black horse, and never, ever when other people were nearby. His past had taught him the dangers of being unaware around others.

Yet now, he simply could not manage to stay awake, despite the questions running around in his mind. The most distinct image which entered his mind as he lost the battle was that of a large, red moon hanging low in the sky...

_And the wolf's howl rose in his mind..._

Martin started awake, or so he supposed. At this hour even the thick log walls of the inn shouldn't have entirely muffled the din from the bar, but there was only silence around him, wholly encompassing, like a calm night far from civilization. His eyes opened to a sea of stars and that red moon, a mist lacing the air around him with a peculiarly ethereal quality. Pines towered far taller than he had ever seen, and lush grasses tickled at his back and arms. Cautiously he lifted his head to glance around the oddly perfect circle of the glen. At the farthest end from him - though the mist made it difficult to gauge the distance exactly - a large shadow formed a beast of gigantic proportions, curled in on itself and sleeping.

He rose from his supine position, aware that, as always, his unassuming but dangerous black blade had made the transition to the Fade with him. The Bastard had introduced him to a fair number of demons during his training and periodically afterwards, and though Martin was no mage, he had become familiar with their tricks. This did not feel like a demon, or like a demon's dream. The ground was too real, the grass _too_ detailed, and - he glanced once more into the sky to verify the matter - the Black City could not be seen.

For one to whom the Veil was but a stepping stone and the Fade a byway, it was... unsettling, to say the least.

 _Am I a religious man?_ he mused. _I have a feeling I am about to find out._

The beast had not moved save to breathe, the slow filling and emptying of its lungs the only sound in the vast glen. Eventually Martin decided that the outline of the shadow spoke of _wolf_ to him, and his hand reached up to clasp the amulet. With a quick nod of decision, he took a first careful step towards the shadow and noticed that his own footsteps produced no sound. Only the bellows-like sound of the odd hulk's breathing seemed real enough to make a noise in this place.

Martin lost track of time as he moved across the glen, the distance sometimes a few strides, and at other times the size of the central aisle in the Grand Cathedral. Once or twice he was tempted to travel the Veil to shorten the journey, but each time he managed to talk himself out of it as caution won out in the end. Just as he was beginning to wonder if the trick was to simply turn around and walk _away_ , his foot landed close enough to the beast that, for the first time since awakening, he heard his own foot create a sound with the soft crunch of grass.

And suddenly the shadow took form around a huge amber eye that opened and stared at him, unblinking.

Martin's hand shot to his shoulder as he fell to his knees, gasping at the pain that suddenly flared deep in the puncture wounds there. A snarl echoed in his head, the same one that had haunted his fevered dreams following his collapse after the struggle with the werewolf leader. His heart began to pound at a fierce pace as sweat popped out all over his body, and the heat of fever suddenly engulfed him. He desperately tried to catch his breath, but nothing seemed to satisfy his body's desperate need for air, and all the while, the pain in his shoulder grew to encompass his entire being, greater even than the pain of the poisons inflicted upon him by the Bastard.

It took him more than a few moments to acclimate, the breath being the most difficult part to get under control, but he had not endured years of pain simply to succumb to it now. Eventually he fought it down, found that part of his mind where he stored the agony of each waking moment, and shoved it all away. Led by an instinct he didn't fully understand, his hand again reached up to grasp the amulet and the wolf's paw upon it.

Trust did not come readily to him: for years he had learned only that no one could be trusted but the Master, when he'd still acknowledged the man as such. Even that trust - though it was more like forced blind faith in the beginning - had been eroded, devolving into the cautious alliance it had been for the last couple of years, leaving him lacking any absolute faith, even in himself.

That is, until that moment after the flute's melody had cleansed him, when he had stared at Ives Durante and seen an exquisite marvel of light and shadow. Though Martin could not trust his own instincts, or his own sense of right and wrong, he knew he could trust Ives - and the gift which had been given to him by the bard.

_Am I a religious man? Or do I simply have unquestioning trust in the man who saved me?_

Either way, he had faith that this is where he needed to be. As the thought fell into place, another sensation shot through his arm, sourced this time from the amulet and undeniably related to the narrowing of the giant amber sphere whose gaze still lingered on him. Trust and faith were clearly powerful things: the second surge wiped away the pain of the first entirely, no threat of it to resurface from the dark place he'd locked it away.

"So you are the one," the Wolf said without moving at all, the use of his mouth apparently unnecessary to speak in his own realm. "You do not appear strong, yet you have proven otherwise in your lands. At least... so far. You have always worked for another. So few of your goals your own... Do you claim those few feats as accomplishments? Or have you learned that there is no accomplishment - no change caused or legacy written in a task only for oneself? Do you believe in something greater than yourself, or do you believe all that has come to pass is a mountain of your own making, to be scaled all alone as well?"

The question unsettled Martin. A decade ago, he would have claimed he _was_ the greater power, a year ago he would have declared Isabeau the greater power in his life. Just this morning he had found someone in whom to instill his faith when Ives had freed him from the Bastard's spell. Yet... the Wolf was no mere mortal, and his question did not refer to the basic concerns of a mere mortal, but something larger than himself.

"Of the evil in my life, I would like to think it only the actions of a person with little soul. Yet for the good in my life, the blessings I do not deserve and will never deserve, these I believe were indeed part of something greater." Isabeau's parents had been the first boon in his life, before he even learned why it was such, and the first great evil in his life had killed them. The force driving him ever since had ensured the same would not happen to Isabeau - or, now, to Ives. "My strength... I understand the reason for it, the need for it, but to know how it has stood up to the many trials along the way? Surely it cannot have been only myself holding against that darkness."

"I imagine you had some help," the Wolf supposed, letting his eyes shift away from Martin, worrying the assassin that he'd become disinterested. "All I can say with certainty is where you received none, and it is by those weights I measure your worth. It is against those weights I measure what can be done when you do work beyond yourself." He shifted, pushing himself to stand at his full height, looming above Martin, but did not look towards him again yet. Instead he moved to the brambles that tangled the base of the trees outlining his glen and reached his enormous muzzle to pluck a small lavender thistle from its branch.

"I was the one to bestow the gift that now plagues you as a curse," he continued thoughtfully, the little lavender flower having disappeared into the close-lipped maw to be chewed slowly. "The first was a powerful hunter who lived in the woods and proclaimed me his only god. One of the Elvhen, a strong man of many, many years. He sleeps now... but the spirits of the forest, those who did not sleep when the Elvhen were forced to, they still remember the great Elvhen with the gifts of the Wolf, the sanctity of his forest, and the fear of the humans. They cannot create the gift as I can, only want for its benefits. You are, in a word, imperfect."

Martin could not help the sad, weary smile that came to his face. "Ah, so so, that is most true." His hand reached instinctively to the bite on his shoulder. "I understand the burden of curses, though I still do not know the nature of the one which afflicted me first. An attempt to recreate perfection... That I can also empathize with." Rubbing the wound, he craned his neck to get a better look at the Wolf. "As well as failure. It is a concept _quite_ familiar to me."

The Wolf snuffed a breath through his nose, the meaning of it too obscure for Martin to venture a guess. The Wolf began to walk away, and Martin's brows furrowed. It seemed nothing he said held the Wolf's interest for long, at least not in a way he was accustomed to recognizing in conversation. "I cannot act in the world as I once did," the Wolf growled. "I can no longer step beyond this realm, as the touch of the Creators is faded and choked by so-called Civilization. Sorrow surrounds the seeds planted to be our gateway. They have grown tall, but they are forgotten - paint and trinkets on their bark to hide the truth of neglect that plagues them. That neglect must be washed away before I can once more walk the world to aid you. Like you, the Vhenadahl must have their purpose restored."

Habit kept Martin's eyes on the Wolf as the great beast padded to the center of the glen and settled on his haunches. The lesson had been ingrained into him with pain and repetition both: _Always keep your eyes on your opponent._ Yet, in this case, he could not consider the Wolf a foe. He knew precisely what it felt like to be trapped, to yearn for what _should be_ and yet would ever remain out of reach. It had, in fact, defined his existence and given him his strength when otherwise he would have succumbed to the Bastard's wishes to become more than a slave and become the Master himself.

His free hand tightened into a fist so tight his nails dug into his palm. _No. Never. I may have served the leash of evil, but I will not_ become _it._ Isabeau had been his anchor, the rock he had clung to when the darkness crashed over him, when the Shadows threatened to overwhelm his soul. Ives had been the hand that reached out to him in the midst of that darkness, grasping him and dragging him from the depths into a semblance of light that he had almost forgotten existed. And now, the Wolf... promised him something even greater, something beyond mere existence: he offered a purpose.

 _Am I religious man?_ He found the answer in that moment, and wondered that he had ever needed to ask. _I am nothing without my faith; I was nothing without my hope. What better definition of religion can there be than belief in a higher power?_

When the Wolf's eyes lifted to look at the haunting red moon high above the glen, his own gaze followed the Wolf's line of sight without hesitation. The Wolf, though dangerous, was a danger he accepted, even welcomed, and the unspoken command to share a view of the orb hanging in the sky seemed as natural as breathing at this time, in this place. It drew him in like a moth, a sense of calm and power thrumming in his veins as he took in a sight that was, on any other night, so simple.

"We are all nothing without Faith," the Wolf agreed. It didn't strike Martin as strange that the Wolf knew that thought, and it certainly wasn't shocking enough to pull his gaze from the strong draw of the moon above. "I can purify your curse and give you command again of your fate, but there will be a price. Even the gods are not without their need for assistance. I have ... tasks I require of you. Will you accept?"

Martin raised an eyebrow. He accepted that the Wolf had abilities he would call divine, but he wondered at what cost those abilities would be used for him. The moon was soothing, and the lack of pain a precious gift in and of itself, but both, he suspected, were associated with the Fade... unless he accepted. He had been presented with promises of power and knowledge before, and god or no, he was wary. "You offer a magnificent reward. What tasks need to be performed?"

The sense of a throaty, feral chuckle resonated through the clearing, yet the Wolf's maw still didn't move. "A heartening question. You are a strangely fearless mortal in the face of the 'Dreadful' Wolf. It bodes well for your future. The greatest challenge will be to survive the change. Then you must come to understand what your role will be, and to know that power is not an entity to crave or control. It will be a challenge against your nature. You will be tested, body and mind, beyond limits you have not reached before."

The Wolf paused and, despite being unable to draw his eyes away from the moon above him, Martin could feel the weight of the god's stare. "But we have not begun to speak of _my_ price. You must visit the Vhenadahl - all of them - and awaken them with a ritual of my design. At the last, far in the reaches of of the Silent Plains, you will see what your work has wrought. On this path there will be many more opportunities to serve me, and each will be well rewarded if I am pleased. These are the terms to which you must agree."

Tasks... Martin was accustomed to doing as he was ordered, and, in his darker times, adding personal little flourishes which not even his fellow Shadows would have dared emulate. He'd _thought_ his path had been set, his future certain and dark.

And now he had a choice. Granted, the choice was between what the Wolf offered and a road even more lonely than that of his previous life, but if he took it, it would be a _choice_ , not a destiny.

As he gazed at the moon, he let his mind drift, pondering his true choices. There was the choice he'd yearned to make since the time the Bastard had first taken him in pain and blood, a choice refused for Isabeau's sake so she would not suffer the same. "I always assumed that once I knew my angel was safely out of the Bastard's reach, I would end my pain." His hand idly traced the lines of the poison trails on the opposite arm, remembering the pain at a distance. "Perhaps that is how I saw my attack on the werewolf, deep down: a guarantee of death after one final protection for her. I certainly never expected them to let me live, not after what I have done." _To them and to others..._

He let his hands fall to his sides. "So now that I no longer desire that, you offer me a choice between the mysteries of a curse which is known to destroy one's humanity, and accepting these trials and tribulations of which you warn me in exchange for purpose and a more... controlled curse. Does that about sum it up?"

"A choice between doing nothing and doing something," the Wolf agreed, somehow sounding both amused and impatient all at once. "Are you like a mouse to choose death, or a wolf to charge against it? If the mouse, that blade you bear destroys not only the target's life, but also consigns them to Daern'thal's... _care_ rather than to that of Falon'din. Should you wish such true and terrible oblivion, it is another _choice."_

Martin's hand went to the hilt of the dagger. "I know not to whom you refer, but I require this blade to cut short one more life in particular before I will relinquish it - even as a mouse." _I'm fairly certain I could still take the Bastard's life before the fur grows, if it came to that..._ "And do not decry that mouse when the alternative is by far worse. However, my time of merely enduring life is at an end." As the decision fell into place, the need to regard the moon faded, and his gaze dropped to meet the Wolf's amber gaze once more. "Do as you will."

"It is _your_ will that will decide what is done and what is not," Fen'Harel growled ominously, looming his twenty feet on all fours. Martin saw his maw open for the first time, gleaming teeth set in mottled gums, frightening enough to make any dragon envious. Above those eyes so much like the Warden-Commander's, amber and haunting, the red moon began to bleed its light into the clearing, washing it in a red as thick as the blood Martin had spilled so many times in his life. All sound ceased after that first growl, the silence pressing on his ears. When Fen'Harel barked, it was a deafening sound with a force of its own that sent Martin flying into one of the impossibly tall pines. As he slid down along its bark, disoriented and possibly injured, the shadow of the tree swallowed him whole.

He tried to breathe, to gasp, but the darkness swallowed even the very air from his lungs. The darkness of the shadow writhed around him, a sensation as terrifying as the first time he had been thrust into the Veil and told to return without aid. The cold surrounded him, stealing his body of the ability to breathe, hindering all movement and rendering him immobile save for a rapid, shallow pant which became his entire world now that sight and touch had been stolen from him.

Just as the agony in his lungs threatened to steal his awareness, he was dropped from the hostile shadow onto a familiar marble floor. Instinctively he tried to push himself away from it, remembering many of the times the various fluids of his body had marred its surface. His body refused to respond, and the helplessness added to the strength of the fear and panic that threatened to overwhelm him. The muscles in his back twitched, waiting for the fall of the whip or the caress of a hand: both were equally terrifying, in this place, and both led only to a mixture of pain and pleasure which left him craving _more._ Whether it was but the memory or part of this _nightmare,_ he swore he could hear the Bastard's voice whispering in his ear: _"You are mine. You will always be mine."_

It took a few moments and strangled breaths to push that instinct to _obey_ and _accept_ aside, to remind himself that this fate was no longer his. His eye of blue no longer beheld the perfection of the Master, and the spell which had governed him for so long was broken, chased away by the peaceful melody of a flute. Slowly, as if he were reaching through broken glass, he moved one hand forward, enough to get under him so he could push himself up. He would _not_ let this conquer him. After some struggling, he managed to get himself propped up on his hands, head hanging loosely as he fought for breath after the ordeal.

Even that small victory crumbled into dust when he suddenly heard a light giggle - a hauntingly familiar sound. Slowly he lifted his head, dreading what he would see but unable to stop himself.

The room was pulled directly from his memories. The Bastard's ostentation demanded grandeur and decadence, swathing the room in velvet of gold and crimson, each bearing the stamp of the _Ombres Sinistres:_ a castle silhouetted in front of a full moon. Chandeliers of gold and crystal spread a lush, warm light over the marble and mahogany, and the focus of the room was the throne-like chair set at one end. His gaze went not to the shadowy figure seated upon it, but to the one standing next to him, her lush curves covered only in the briefest strips of silk and lace below her untamed, flowing hair.

"What is your desire, my Master?" Isabeau asked in a breathy voice. Her hand rested on the man's shoulder for a moment, then began to move down, wandering over the gold and crimson cloth worn by the Master of the Shadows.

A chuckle echoed in the chamber, and her _Master's_ response came in a sudden grip around her waist which swung her onto his lap. She obeyed with a light gasp, eagerly wrapping an arm around his neck.

Martin fought to rise, to draw his dagger, to _strike,_ but could only watch as Isabeau leaned her head back and sighed in evident pleasure as a hand closed around the skimpy cloth covering her perfect breasts and ripped it away. "Take me, Master. I am yours."

Rage poured through Martin as the man still hidden within the shadows did just that, availing himself of the willing body in his lap. Martin attempted to use his rage to find his dagger, to stand and charge, to do _anything_ except simply watch his angel be despoiled in such a manner. Even from this distance, he observed the scars marring her ivory skin, saw the way her smile remained fixed in place as firmly as any Orlesian Court mask, and felt the same blend of terror and lust the Bastard implanted in all his toys. The whimpers in the back of her throat may have sounded like blossoming pleasure to the untrained ear, but he knew them for what they were: pain and fear.

Just as the Bastard preferred.

For all of his struggling, though, he remained helpless. The knowledge that this was nothing more than a nightmare, a test, faded away, and his shoulders slumped as the enormity of his failure weighed them down. He forgot the nature of this place and the Wolf's dark promise, and knew only that he had not been able to protect his angel as he had promised to her that Satinalia morn so very long ago.

Then the man leaned forward, face emerging from the shadows which had obscured him, and looked directly at Martin. Eyes of forest green taunted him above a harsh and twisted smile. "Ah, but now it is as _we_ desire, _non?"_

 _I... No..._ More than his breath froze this time: icicles ran through his veins as Martin stared at his own image, too stunned to do more as he watched the man on the throne draw a knife and lay the tip at the hollow of Isabeau's throat. When she whimpered, the smile widened, and he nodded at Martin. "Enjoy, _mon ombre."_

" _Noooooooo!"_ Martin roared - but the fury and despair were mixed in equal measure.

Darkness crept around the edges of his vision, shapes becoming smudges and colours dimming away. Martin thought he might pass out - a preferred alternative, at this point - but felt himself back on the long, soft grass of the glen. The _nightmare_ had passed, though its memory certainly had not.

Fen'Harel gave the man a few moments to collect himself, a fact for which Martin was grateful. Though he now had control of his body, he yet fought the residual trembling as he wiped the cold sweat from his brow. As the horror of the vision passed, the rage began to set in. His extremities tingled with cold as the adrenaline coursed through his system, making the hairs on his arms and neck rise. He abruptly realized that a growl had started in his throat, deep and astonishingly menacing. Before he could ponder the oddity, however, he looked at the Wolf... and saw that the Wolf was not looking at him, but instead was focused on something _behind_ him.

Pivoting swiftly, Martin froze momentarily when he saw a dark figure rise slowly from the ground on the other side of the glen from where he'd awoken. As he watched, shadows crept up the figure's legs and arms before being absorbed into the scarred flesh with a high-pitched keen. When all the shadows had vanished, the man's head snapped up, and again Martin saw cold green eyes above a twisted smile. When he spoke, the voice used his own carefully cultivated Orlesian tones. "You left too soon. There was hardly any blood, but oh, her pain was _exquisite."_

Martin didn't even hesitate. His blade was in his hand with barely a thought as he launched himself across the glen, not caring that his dark shadow did the same. All he was concerned about was eradicating this... this _aspect_ of him that had, for a second, _wanted_ to step forward and sit in that throne, and do those things to his angel.

The first exchange of the blades sent a shock up his shoulder, but Martin held against the attack. The fact surprised him, since his shoulder had been weaker with the bite. A quick glance down distracted him enough that his foe was able to land a solid blow on the side of his head. Staggering, he allowed his feet to take him away for a bit to regain his equilibrium, but also verify what he had seen.

The lack of shirt posed no true concern - it merely freed up his movements - but he had to move past his moment of astonishment to see a completely whole shoulder. Not only was the mark of the werewolf gone as if it had never been, so, too, were the marks of the Bastard. He took a deep breath, using his training to process the shock through his mind quickly, but during that breath, his world shifted. The Bastard had laid his claim to Martin only partially through magic: the lattice of scars and burns had been set into his very flesh for so many years that the first scars were long since obscured and forgotten. He was not sure how it had come to pass, but he accepted it as proof of the Wolf's power and sincerity.

The last air of his momentary meditation escaped, and his eyes focused in time to see his enemy's blade coming towards him. Instinct took over, and again he entered into the fray against his misshapen mirror.

"Admit it, you wanted to hold that knife, to put your own mark on her," the other crooned, dodging a slash from Martin easily. "To see that fear in her eyes again, to revel in that power. Poor little Martin had no control over his own life and no one who cared for him... But there was dear, _vulnerable_ little Isabeau, just waiting for you to come back into her life. Oh, her fear was _beauti_ -"

Martin's growl returned, drowning out the words coming out of his dark shadow's mouth as he launched himself at the man. He punched the familiar face - still twisted by Livilla's scar - hard enough that the flesh started to darken almost immediately, but arms exactly as strong as his own pushed him away before he could bring the knife to slash across the throat.

"Ah, so so, a sensitive subject, I see. All those women you assaulted and killed - and the men, too, come to think of it - to which you never even gave another thought, yet you won't even allow yourself to enjoy the one that matters?" The figure danced back from Martin's questing blade, green eyes dancing in sadistic merriment. "Especially the daughter of that one Nevarran noble. Remember her? You took her maidenhead and then left her to the other Shadows to enjoy. Not very romantic, but then how could someone such as you know even know the nature of love, hmm?"

With a roar that turned into almost a howl, Martin engaged with him again, fist landing with punishing accuracy. This time the nose crunched under his knuckles, and blood immediately began to flow in a crimson tide, yet the laughter only grew louder in his ears. "Admit it, _mon ombre_. Your soul is as black as the Void itself. Not even a god could make you worthy of love, much less teach you how to savor it. Embrace your ruthlessness and accept the path of the killer."

Martin recognized the words. All the words pouring from that those lips had echoed in his head for so many years he doubted he would ever be fully rid of them. Two days ago, he accepted them without question. Yesterday, the words had made him beg a good man to end his life.

And then the same good man had given him two gifts. One had brought him to this realm, to be tested by the Wolf, and the other... The other had proven to him once and for all the falsity of those words.

"I am not you." With that declaration, he brought his dagger up and around, slashing the throat of the one pinned beneath him.

There was no spray of blood, no satisfaction of the kill - slashing the doppelganger's throat earned him nothing but a scornful laugh. "You think that can stop me? I _am_ you, _mon ombre._ I simply dwell far deeper than you could hope possibly hope to dig, and I will _always_ be there." A powerful shove flung Martin across the glen, forcing the dagger from his hand as he instinctively curled into a ball. He rolled to a halt, bracing himself on all fours while he waited for the world to stop spinning. Peripherally he was aware that his foe, despite all his bravado, was slow to regain his feet.

Taking the moment of respite, he let his head drop. His gaze automatically sought out his arms, smooth in the absence of the long parallel scars left by the Bastard's control. Tucking his chin in further, he saw his chest: completely free of blemish save for one: where the amulet had touched his chest, a wolf's paw had been imprinted, perfectly shaped and black as the night. As he looked at it, a howl echoed in his head, and he gasped as the sound ran up his spine like a bolt of lightning.

What had the Wolf said? _"I can purify your curse... Your greatest challenge will be to survive the change..."_ The change...

And, just like that, he felt it rising within him, the pain more like an old friend than a shocking enemy. As each part of his body shifted and grew and _changed,_ as his bones cracked and repositioned and his muscles pulled and stretched, the fur emerged thick and black, followed quickly by dagger-sharp fangs and claws. Pushing himself to his feet, he raised his head and let loose a howl to the red moon above that carried the promise of death and revenge.

In seconds he had run across the glen and tackled the shadow to the ground, sinking his claws into its shoulders to pin it down. His sensitive nose flared, finding the truth beneath the lies. The growl awoke in his chest again, the sound of a wolf ready to kill. Though it took him a couple of words to figure out how to talk with his reconfigured jaws and tongue, he enjoyed the sound of the words as they emerged from his maw. "Let us see, _mon diable,_ how _deeply_ I must dig to be rid of you, hmm?"

The demon struggled under him as the claws began to shred the illusion, pale skin darkening to black scale as the lies were stripped away by Martin's claws and will. The creature shrieked, swelling to its full size now that the ruse had been discovered, but Martin had fought these creatures in the past, and knew how to take them down. He tussled with the monster, avoiding its attacks even while his own struck more and more deeply, until he found what he was looking for: the one weak spot just under what passed for a ribcage in the demon.

Quick as the thought that gave it birth, his claws pierced through the skin, dug through the intervening flesh, and found the heart. Dumb creatures that they were, the spirits known as demons had copied mortals a bit too well, without understanding what the consequences of that mimicking would be. Using strength he would never have had in his native form, he tightened his grip and pushed himself away from the demon, ripping its heart out with a great heave that left him covered in blood.

As the demon's body sighed to the floor of the glen, he tossed the heart to the side. "It appears I was able to dig deeply enough, _mon ombre,"_ he snarled, then turned and made his way back to the Wolf who sat calmly waiting for him. With each step he took, the blood, both his and that of his enemy, fell away from him, sluicing from his body to the soil beneath the grass, disappearing even as the corpse of the pride demon faded behind him. When he reached the Wolf, he knelt in front of him, head bowed in respect.

If a Wolf could ever look proud, there was something in Fen'Harel's eyes that spoke of it. There was no praise, no further direction, but the god simply chuckled - a somewhat disturbing sound in its own right. When Martin next closed his eyes, he felt the simple act of blinking grow long, the sense of sound and time around him distorting, slowing, pulling him back to a familiar place. He hadn't realized just how cold the Fade was until he was back in his bed, under the blankets in a thick-walled inn. He knew the glen and the Wolf would both be gone when he opened his eyes, the muffled din of a busy bar below... and the tantalizing scent of lavender down the hall, a scent he now associated almost exclusively with Ives.

A bare second later his newly sensitive nose also detected far more noxious scents emanating from underneath him. His body had healed, miraculously so, but the poison and blood had not disappeared as conveniently here in Thedas as they had in the Fade. The sheets upon which he lay, the clothing he'd fallen asleep in: they were soaked through with all the hate and deceit of his life as a Shadow, and his mind rebelled at the notion.

Quickly throwing the blanket aside, he practically vaulted from the bed. With the same urgency he removed his sopping clothes and threw them onto the soiled sheets, snagging the blanket so that he could rub the residual liquid away as firmly as possible. Thankfully his hair seemed relatively untouched, since the Bastard had preferred a _pretty face._ Once his skin was dry, he wrapped the blanket around his hips and walked to the mirror, surprised that he could see in the dark as if it were late afternoon.

Once he was in front of the mirror, he peered at himself, looking at what had changed. Only a fraction of his old scars remained - mostly those inflicted by magic - and he stared at his chest and arms, seeing smooth skin where none had been for over ten years. His hair and nails all showed a couple of months' worth of growth, and in the middle of his chest, hidden partially by the amulet around his neck, the black pawprint marked his heart. He pulled the amulet aside slightly, then suddenly grinned. "Why must I always receive a mark to denote when I enter someone's service?"

The sound of light footsteps tore his attention away from the mirror, and suddenly he realized that the smell of lavender had grown stronger while he'd examined his new self. The footsteps stopped near the door, the hinges creaked with a bit of pressure, but the latch never turned. It seemed Ives had come to the door, pressed his ear against it, then - as Martin was surprised to be able to hear - sighed and moved on his way.

A high-pitched little whine rose in the back of his throat, quickly suppressed as soon as he realized it was coming from _him_. He glanced at the mirror, remembering his state of undress, then decided perhaps it was for the best that Ives did not enter the room. He took a deep breath, then nodded to himself. "Best not be too greedy." He was whole, for the first time in years, and had a purpose which need not involve killing for power or whim. He knew Ives loved his Dalish Princess, and that the reverse was also true, though Artana was more reserved in her display of it. They were happy.

It was not his place to interfere with that.

His hand rose to the black pawprint on his chest. No, his place was to find the Vhenadahl and realign them to the Wolf's purpose. His place was to forge a new path for himself, one untainted by the evils of his past, and that meant leaving Isabeau and Ives alone, at least on a personal level.

Oh, but how he wished to return the gift Ives had given him. He closed his eyes as his fingers roamed over his lips. _Maybe just once... when the opportunity arises._

For now, though, he needed to figure out an answer to his sudden lack of clothes. He turned to the window, and grinned. "Perhaps a little bird could help me." Moving to the window, he whistled three rising notes sharply into the night.

In the stable, two red eyes opened, and a wicker echoed. _The Master called._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Ar nuvenin na'din, seth'lin* - I want to kill you, thin blood


	16. Burden of Guilt

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**Chapter Sixteen: Burden of Guilt  
**

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When the alarm failed to sound that night and no howls reached the sky, Artana decided at dawn they would be departing. Everyone was willing - they'd taken two days out of a time-sensitive journey with little to show for it besides a sense of accomplishment. Martin saw the exhaustion in Ives' weary eyes, and could not help but feel responsible for it. The bard's trips to press his ear against the door hadn't stopped all night, and they still hadn't truly ended. Ives kept throwing glances to Martin every other minute, nervous as Jean regarded Martin with a keen eye while the horses were prepared for departure. The lavender that made up most of the bard's scent was mixed with something acrid, another hint of the worry Ives felt for Martin.

"He has made a miraculous recovery," Jean remarked, a hand on the pommel of his sword. Though Jean's soap gave him the subtle fragrance of orange and cloves, his anger added an overtone of burnt wood, making Martin's nose itch. "If he is healthy enough to ride with us, he is healthy enough for a duel."

"Jean," Ives pleaded, a soft whine in his voice. "If you'll hear no other of the reasons to leave him alone, can't you at least agree we've wasted enough time here in Hunter Fell?"

"Ives is right," Artana said with a tone of finality that demanded even Jean's attention, no matter how eager he was for retribution. She smelled of pine and the wilds, of the forest and loam. It was most fascinating, even if it was colored by her impatience to be gone. "For now, Martin rides with us. If he is cursed, he is my burden. If he is not, he is yours. What matters at this exact moment is that the horses are well rested and the roads well-tended. We will be riding hard to make up lost time. The city will be fine without us." Martin watched, fascinated, as she made short work of the long climb onto Assan's back, the mare as tall at the shoulder as Artana was in all. Once mounted, with that same finality, she looked him square in the eye and said, "I can hit any target from over one hundred yards."

Martin nodded. "Understood, Commander." He had little doubt in her skill, and less in her willingness to use it on him if he tried to escape. Though he knew he would easily be able to leave the company if he willed it, he had no immediate desire to do so. His eyes danced to one reason for his reluctance to travel alone, and bright blue eyes met his own before quickly glancing to Artana as Ives mounted Carrot. Moving his gaze to the  _other_ reason, he found Isabeau watching him, a somber expression on her face. She sat in her saddle with as much ease as the rigid splint on her arm allowed, and he felt the weight of her gaze even after he looked away. The guilt churning within, as well as the remnants of the nightmare in the Fade, made him hesitant to approach her, much as he wished to be with her as a free man after all these years. Still, the memories of his actions during those years kept him far from her side.

So Martin ended up looking at Artana once more, wondering how much that amber gaze actually saw, and grinned at her. "I assure you, there will be no need for you to unleash your fury upon my humble person. I am meek and docile as a lamb."

Her eyes narrowed, indicating she was less than convinced. "Whether lamb or wolf, you will be watched." With a curt nod, she led Assan to the front of their caravan in hopes of hurrying everyone along. His nose, ever more sensitive following his pledge to the Wolf in the Fade, smelled her discontent, a scent of burnt umber overlaying the pine he had categorized as 'Artana'.

Martin laid a hand on Crow's black neck, greeting his steed with a nod. In the daylight, Crow's eyes appeared almost normal, but there was no sign of bridle or bit on the black horse as Martin vaulted onto his back. Crow shook his head as Livilla's steed Dorf tried to snap at him, but otherwise ignored the other horses as they settled into place in Artana's wake. Aware of Jean's suspicious glare as the Chevalier placed himself between Martin and the women in the group, Martin let Crow take the rearmost position of the group.

After all, one did not tell Crow what to do.

It gave him a better opportunity to watch the others, and to respond to the hesitant farewells of the residents of Hunter Fell with a smile and a wave of his own. Once they passed the outskirts of the town, the horses dispersed even more. Martin watched them all closely, aware that many glances and glares of varying meaning were being sent his direction.

That was why, for most of the morning, he did little more than observe, trying to determine where he stood with each member of the merry little band. No one was particularly willing to speak with him, which he had expected. After all, aside from Artana, he had perpetrated evil against all of them, with malice and intent to harm. Their suspicion was well-placed.

His eyes stole a glance to Ives, and caught the bard looking at him for a brief moment before the bard's gaze skittered away. He watched Carrot weave an erratic path for a few paces before the horse settled into a gentle canter once more, and closed his eyes to breathe and push away the impact of those bright blue eyes.  _Artana. He cleaves to her._

Opening his eyes once more, he found a most unwelcoming gaze upon him from a similar set of blue eyes. Jean, however, regarded him with distrust and anger, neglecting even to scan the empty landscape around them for prospective enemies. Martin frowned as he realized that left the party vulnerable.  _Yet how do I deal with a man after I threatened his children and murdered his wife?_

The question occupied his mind until Artana called the first halt to rest the horses. Taking a deep breath, he slid from Crow's back and strode to where Jean was tying the horses to a tree. Jean's eyes narrowed as Martin moved closer, and his hand moved immediately to his sword hilt. Silence claimed the other humans in the group, and Martin knew without looking that all eyes were on them.

He stopped only a couple of feet away from Jean, meeting the man's gaze squarely with what he hoped was a friendly expression. "May I please have a word with you, Ser?" It sounded more than a trifle forced, but he saw no graceful way to begin the conversation.

Jean shifted on his feet, and the scent of orange and cloves which surrounded the man became tinged with another smell, one that Martin  _thought_  meant uncertainty, though he was not completely sure. The warrior's expression was certain enough as he said, "We will not be stopped for long."

Martin sighed inwardly. Not a direct refusal, but definitely not a happy acceptance.  _Ah, well. Nothing I did not expect._  "We need to talk, it is true, but I will not make you exert yourself for my sins any further."

Jean frowned, eyes still narrowed as he considered the man. "You … seem different," he finally said, each word slow and grudging. Though he tried to keep his voice low, Martin knew that everyone was listening. "Yet I assure you, on the honor of my Cateline and to protect my children, my guard will never be lowered in your presence. This is a grudging truce with little reason to not demand satisfaction. The sword between us is not buried and gone."

Martin regarded Jean silently for a moment, reading the mistrust and suspicion in his face, a face so like Ives... It was remarkably painful, to see such as that on that particular visage. Acting on impulse, he knelt in front of the warrior, head bowed and hands held out, palms up. "On the honor I hope to one day restore, I pledge you, who has no reason to accept such, these words: that if the day comes where I cause my little angel any further pain, that if I in any fashion harm the dear dark beauty, that if through my actions you and yours are injured in any way, that is the day I will bare my neck to your blade and willingly take my death at your hands. There is only one that has more cause than you to wish my death, and she is far too gentle to demand it." He paused, still not looking up. "This is the oath I swear to you, though I have nothing of value save the love I bear for Isabeau, even if you do not believe in that. I can only hope that, in time, you will come to accept these words and believe in them as much as Isabeau believes in you."

Silence lingered after the words, though Martin took it as a hopeful sign that Jean didn't simply walk away and leave him kneeling there in the dust. It was no mystery that it wasn't Ives' words but Isabeau's hesitance which kept the once-Chevalier restrained. If any one thing in Martin's past acts had aided the man's opinion, the return of Cateline's Hours had at least proved he hadn't  _truly_  wanted to bring harm.

A sigh came from above, and shortly afterwards a large, strong hand took Martin's upheld one and helped him to his feet. "So by what sorcery have you healed so quickly?" Though no smile lit his face or shining good will in his heart, Jean's fury seemed to have been quenched for the time being. "Artana is skilled with potions and remedies, but not miraculous, and I know that Livilla was too exhausted for her magic to be an option."

Martin, however, allowed himself a small smile. "Ah, so so, I don't suppose you would believe that I was blessed by a God?"

It seemed even despite the anger within the kind-hearted man, he was too polite to use excessively harsh words. After a few moment's hesitance, wherein Jean took his hand back to his side, he said, "I would not associate this with the Maker's work. I must concede that faith seen in... others," his eyes noticeably shifted to Artana, "has set to rest my insistence he is the only god, but given the place and the affliction, I do not know what god might have thought to intervene."

"A strange thing, it is, to go to sleep an indifferent child of the Maker and awake the..." he paused, unsure of the exact words to use to describe what had happened. "Awake the servant of a much more  _involved_  Deity. I also do not know the Commander's view of this particular one. He seemed... rather independent, if you take my meaning."

Martin quickly came to worry that he had misstepped. The strain placed on the word  _involved_  clearly sat a little bitter on Jean's palate, lips so often in a smile very noticeable when turned in a sour expression. "The Maker guides, but our fates are largely our own." Jean was a strong enough man not to linger, apparently, as in the end he merely voiced a worry: "I will reserve judgement on the thought of a new god not kin to the Dalish or the Maker. I just … caution you are not fooled by a demon. They prey on those who are in dire straits... Your healing may have a high price."

Martin could not help but grin, considering the nature of his 'test' in the Fade just the night before. The grin proved short-lived, fading as the memories of the other demons he'd killed swirled in his mind. "I have had dealings with demons before, and always it has ended in their death. The one who healed me is no demon. Of this, I am most certain." He hesitated, not quite sure how to explain his indifference to the Maker to a man who had suffered on a completely different level than Martin. "I apologize if my words caused undue offense. I will admit, however, that the work of the Maker has been difficult to perceive in my life. Were it not for my little angel and your dear brother, I would say that indeed the Maker is merely a word of forlorn hope. But, it is true, for those reasons, I never gave up on him entirely."

"And for others, I never do," Jean said simply,

"Hold to your faith," Martin found himself saying, a bit to his own surprise. "And perhaps what I've found in this god will give you a measure to also begin having some in me. Were it not for the faith of others, I would not be here." It was difficult not to look at Isabeau, even moreso to avoid turning to Ives, but he managed to keep his gaze forward. "And thank you."

There was more quiet at this point, Jean clearly uncertain what to say, perhaps even what to think. In the end, all he managed to ask was, "Thank you?"

"For not giving me the fate I so very richly deserve," he replied quietly.

"I ... I see," Jean managed. There was a bit of a surprise in those words as the thick Orlesian lilt tapered off, making the warrior sound almost like his bardic twin. Abruptly Jean nodded stiffly, his next words returning back to a more familiar accent. "I must assist Artana so the rest does not last overlong."

Martin let him go without saying more, knowing that further words would only be counterproductive to his purpose. Silently he turned away, hoping that Crow would return soon. He wasn't sure what to do in the meantime, since conversation did not seem exactly suitable with any of the others, particularly after that rather tense scene. He couldn't help but look at Ives for a moment, catching an equally sporadic glance when the other man quickly turned away. The small measure of security he'd gained from finding a moment of accord with Jean faded, and he began to walk away.

Behind him, he heard Livilla speak up. "Commander, I had a question. Why are we heading north?"

Martin immediately pivoted, hearing the slightest tremble in Livilla's voice. He'd assumed their destination to be the Imperium from the first, since Artana had set such a punishing pace. He'd assumed that Livilla knew, and had agreed, but now he wondered.

It didn't take long for the painful silence to be broken. "The amulets we seek were last recorded in the Imperium. Minrathous. I have been made aware of your situation. You are a Warden now, and it is required you be considered with immunity, or our retribution is above the law."

Livilla stilled for a moment, jaw clenching. Her eye squeezed shut as her hands convulsively clutched at her traveling cloak. "Minrathous?" she asked in an uncharacteristically choked whisper.

Isabeau quickly wrapped her good arm around her friend as Livilla began to shake uncontrollably. "Shh, shh. I'll be with you. We'll  _all_ be with you."

Livilla leaned into Isabeau, burying her head into the crook of her neck. Isabeau looked at Artana. "I think we need a minute, here." Her tone as much as her expression showed the worry for her friend, and Martin felt the same concern. Though he'd killed the Tevinter agents before from a sense of competition - after all, Livilla was _his_  target, or had been, and not theirs - now he knew he would continue to rid the world of them, if for no other reason than to ease the trembling of Livilla's shoulders.

Artana nodded. "Very well. I'll scout on ahead. Ives?" She gestured with a tip of her head.

" _Oui,_   _amour_." Ives hurried to her side, leading Carrot and Assan to her so they could ride to the crest of the hill.

Apparently not too unsettled by his awkward conversation with Martin, Jean hurried to the girls' side. "If I may... you are a Warden now. Whatever you may fear in Minrathous, whatever haunts you - know that it has no power over you anymore. Very few things in Thedas do. A... small reward for giving our lives to this service. I... can not know if those words mean much to you, but I thought it may at least help you."

Livilla heaved a deep breath, her voice muffled from its location in Isabeau's shoulder. "You speak of legal niceties, not reality," she whispered.

Martin had been approaching them silently, albeit slowly, but when he heard the fear in Livilla's voice, he crossed the space between them more quickly. Kneeling in front of her, he drew Livilla's hand into his. "They will not have you, my dear dark beauty, not if I can prevent it. You may not trust in my heart, but you know my skills." Slowly she turned and looked at him, surprised. As she considered him, the hairs on the back of his neck rose, a sensation familiar from the years in which he had played cat to her mouse. His transformation had only made him  _more_  sensitive to the constant hum of the Fade in her presence, and again he wondered at that odd detail.

The speculation vanished when he felt her hand squeeze his gently in return. "Was last night dreadful?" she asked quietly.

His eyes narrowed, then widened, remembering how the god had referred to himself as the Dreadful Wolf. "How-?"

Livilla shook her head, but she definitely seemed calmer. "Thank you, pup. That... helps, oddly enough, to know you'll eviscerate them."

_Pup?_  "Yes, well, glad to be of service," he said, a trifle disgruntled, then glanced over when he heard Isabeau stifle a giggle. He felt Livilla's hand squeeze his again, and realized that she seemed to be expecting something. Deciding to play along, he said, in a slightly injured tone, "Pup?"

Isabeau laughed.  _"Livilla!"_

"Well, look at him. That furrowed brow, the wide eyes, the need to be of use. If that's not a pup, I don't know what it is." The light tone in her voice was at odds with the way her hand held on to his so tightly, and Martin realized that she was trying to push through the shock of the moment.

She was...  _teasing_ him. He wasn't the only one perplexed by the shift. "... Livilla?" Jean asked, in the way one checks to see if someone is with fever.

Martin scrunched up his brow even more, holding her hand gently no matter how tightly she gripped his. "I'd like to think I am of slightly more use than a pup," he protested.

"True," Livilla conceded with thoughtful frown. "At least he's housebroken. You are, aren't you?"

"But of course, my dear dark beauty - provided I have the finest of sandalwood shavings to spread on the floor." He winked at Livilla, a warm feeling in his chest as Isabeau giggled.

"Livilla, he is  _not_  a puppy! Honestly..."

Her friend merely shrugged. "There are similarities, that is all I am claiming." Abruptly Livilla nodded. "I think we've dallied long enough. Jean, could you please help Isabeau mount?"

"Ah, I can - yes," Jean responded immediately, taking Isabeau's hand in his own with care to lead her away.

"Martin."

Martin looked down to see Livilla holding out a hand expectantly. "Ah, of course, my dear dark beauty." He took it and smoothly helped her to her feet.

As they walked to her mount, Dorf, Livilla said softly, "I wouldn't recommend telling anyone else. None of them would handle it well."

Her tone was unperturbed, as if his condition of fur and fang truly did not upset her, so he tried to follow suit as he helped her onto her mare. "I had reached the same conclusion myself."

"Be careful, Martin. The Wolf may not be the traitor that the Dalish call him, but he is still a trickster, and a god. Never forget that."

Crow cantered up behind him, ignoring Dorf's attempt to bite at him again. Martin nodded as he settled his hand on Crow's neck. "I will not. Thank you, my dear dark beauty."

"Just be cautious, pup. Isabeau needs you." WIth that, Livilla urged her horse towards Jean and Isabeau.

Martin shook his head, and turned to mount Crow. Vaulting on his mount's back, he waited for Crow to start after the trio. When the horse only shook his head, Martin frowned and opened his mouth to ask why - just as the wind wafted a disturbingly familiar scent to his nostrils. A growl awoke in his chest, and he turned, quickly orienting on the source of the scent.

Then he grinned. "Care to join me on a hunt?"

.~^~.

Martin snarled as his claws tore across the throat of the last man standing, sending him to the ground with a spray of blood. Grunting in satisfaction, he began to check the bodies lying about the moonlit meadow one by one, trying to remember which one he had left alive. Even though his eyes allowed him to see the area as if it were late afternoon, all the bodies were covered in blood from the fight. Aside from the fact that these men were of the Imperium and not from his former Master, there was not much to differentiate it from the ones on the previous few nights. They were dead, and he was not.

Of course, since these men  _were_  from the Imperium...

Finally Martin found the one he'd struck with his fist rather than his claws. He knelt briefly next to the man and forced his mouth open, pouring a special concoction of his own devising down his captive's throat: magebane mixed in with some mild soporifics designed to make a mage pliable for questioning. Martin had been hit by a spell of ice from the man before he'd managed to knock him out, and he didn't particularly want to take chances during the interrogation. After he was sure the man had swallowed the entire contents of the vial, he bent and swept the body up and onto his shoulder easily, the weight of the man hardly an effort for his lupine form. He turned and addressed the owner of a pair of glowing red eyes. "I'm going to the estates. Meet me there."

Crow nodded before turning and running away, his form quickly accelerating out of sight.

Martin shook his head, still unsure why Crow was unable to accompany him when he walked the Veil, but he knew that Crow had his own methods to travel Thedas quickly when not using his hooves. With a shrug, he left the dead Tevinter agents behind him and took a step forward, sliding into the space that only the Shadows truly understood, that breath between the Veil and the Fade where all time and distance were one. The body on his shoulder struggled as it tried to breathe and found no air, so Martin quickly touched the faint line of energy that spoke of his estates in Orlais and pulled.

On the other end of that faint line, he stepped out of a large shadow in a distant bedroom of the manor. He spared a glance for the figure tied with chains to the bed, verifying that he yet breathed, and was pleased to note that the writhing and screaming had ceased. Moving to the heavy chair he'd brought in from the forge, he threw the Tevinter agent into it, then knelt and began to tie the chains around his captive's wrists and ankles. As he did so, the man stirred and groaned. "Wha- Where am-" Then he saw Martin's hulking, furred form, visible by the dim luminescence of the lyrium-light which had been set on the small table next to the bed.

He screamed and started struggling against the chains. "Who are you?  _What_ are you?"

Martin chuckled nastily, baring his teeth and making a show of licking his fangs with a long, lupine tongue. "Your worst nightmare," he growled. Setting a hand on the face of the suddenly frozen man, he squeezed until blood welled up around the points of his claws. "Unless you answer some questions."

The man's eyes could not be any wider, and to nod his head would be foolhardy. "Y-yes," he gulped, "anything. Just d-don't bite me."

Martin's grin grew, emphasizing his teeth as he surged forward and mock-bit at the man's face, enjoying the way the man yelped and jerked back despite the fact that the claws ripped through his skin. "That depends on how helpful you are. And remember," he added, "before you answer any questions, I can  _smell_ a lie." He snorted for emphasis, blowing air on the man's face. "Now, tell me: you smell of magic. You are a mage,  _non?"_

"Y-yes. The Magister wanted someone t-to evaluate the property once she has been recovered." Sweat had popped out on the man's face, and began to trickle down, mixing with the blood.

A growl woke deep in Martin's chest as he tilted his head. "I suggest you do not refer to her as  _property,"_  he snarled.

"A-a-ah, yes, yes, ser." The bump on his throat visibly jumped as he swallowed.

"And what do you mean,  _evaluate?"_

He tried to pull back further from Martin's wrath. "I-t's been so long since the Magisters have examined her, they wanted to make sure she could still perform her function!" His words came out in a rush, staring at the claw hovering near his right eye. "They wanted to make sure she was still a catalyst!"

Martin's eyes narrowed. "And if she was not?"

"Our orders were to-" The man trailed off, and Martin lost patience. He dragged a claw down the man's face, ignoring the scream as blood streamed freely down his cheek.

"And if she was not?" he repeated.

"Orders were to kill her!" the man gasped, shuddering from the pain.

"There, that wasn't so hard was it?" Martin purred. It was literally a purr, which he could make sound soothing or menacing as the need arose. Certainly he did not intend to comfort  _this_ man, especially if his suspicions were correct. "Now, another question, my fine, talkative friend. I know the value of the catalyst to the Magisters, why they have been trying to recover Livilla these many years. You do not wear the medallion of a Magister, yet you are too old to be an apprentice. Where do you fit into the scheme of things?"

"I- I was one of those included on the initial project, a full mage assigned by the Archon to ensure the project was successful." His eyes closed as Martin's claw drew closer to his eye, struggling futilely against his bonds. "I worked with Danarius in particular, testing the methods on her which we later perfected on the elf who escaped him."

"The one who fought with the Champion of Kirkwall?" Martin asked with interest. "Fenris, if I recall correctly."

"A-aye, that one. Another piece of unrecovered pro-" He gasped as Martin's claws dug into his face and eyelids. "-ah, escaped slave. After he murdered Danarius, though, no one wanted to risk trying to recover him. That's when the efforts to regain the girl redoubled. Fenris was a channel rather than a catalyst, but he was still one of only two with the lyrium implantation. He was valuable and deemed simpler to regain at the time. When he was deemed unrecoverable, we turned our attention back to the girl."

"Why are they so determined to recover her if her status is in doubt at all?"

"Th-the Magisters think they can recreate the success they had with the male proper-  _F-Fenris_ ," he squeaked as Martin flexed his fingers, "a-and maybe resurrect the old catalyst project once more. With the Chantry and and the Circles marching into war in the rest of Thedas, the Imperium needs the advantage the catalyst could give us. If we could but figure out how to make one which doesn't require living flesh, we would be invincible!"

"That is what the Magisters think?" Martin said quietly.

The man nodded feverishly. "And I won't be the last! Eventually they'll send a Magister after her, I heard them say it."

"They are losing many to death in their effort to regain her. Surely there is a point when they will give up on ever 'recovering' her."

"They're desperate. The opportunity presented by the coming war..." His face twisted. "Mages are flooding to Minrathous now that the Chantry of the White Divine and the Templars have been shown to be weak, and we could regain our former glory if we play our cards right." The man's face shone with a patriotic fervor, and all hesitance had fled his demeanor. "All we need is a way to be fully independent from lyrium, to be able to draw upon magic as we should. The early tests of the catalyst were promising, and combined with blood magic... we need never fear the evils of lyrium, blue or red, ever again!"

Martin snarled, but it was more internal frustration than directed at his captive.  _Merde._  With that driving force for a motivation, he didn't have a hope of stopping the flood of agents sent by the Magisters anytime soon. If they truly believed - as this man did - that the future of the Imperium itself rested in the recovery of Livilla and her unusual form of magic, they would never give up. And if they saw her in Minrathous...

_No, they will not care that she is protected by the Grey Wardens._  The Archdemons and Darkspawns were a dim threat of the past and far away. The war brewing between the templars and the mages was real, and growing closer with each passing month. It would, indeed, be an unprecedented opportunity for the Imperium if the lands ruled by the Chantry of the White Divine devolved into chaos because of such a war.

"Are they simply ignoring the high death rate of the agents sent after her?" he growled.

"The opportunity must not be missed!" the man insisted. "We almost gave up hope when we heard that the Master of the Shadows had assigned  _Capriccio della Morta_  to kill her after the Chantry incident in Kirkwall. We assumed she was done for - who could survive being  _that one's_  mark? Then our agents saw her in Val Royeaux, alive, and the Magisters have been trying to get her ever since."

"Did you not wonder why she was still alive?" he asked, tone amused.

The man blinked. "N-no," he confessed.

Sparked by inspiration, Martin abruptly leaned down, pulling the wildness inside and sending fur and fang away until his green eyes met the man's wide brown eyes. "Because I was not sent to kill her, but to protect her." His hand closed around the man's throat, unconcerned by the lie he had just uttered. Perhaps it would be the lie that would save Livilla's life. "And I have done remarkably well so far,  _non?"_

" _Y-You!"_ the man gasped.

Martin nodded. "A note will be attached to your body upon its return to Minrathous explaining that  _Capriccio_   _della Morta_ wishes the Magisters to leave the girl alone. Hopefully they will heed it, but if not, I will need names to pursue." He grinned, slowly. "And  _you_  will give them to me."

A few minutes later, he turned away from the man, who now sat slumped unconscious in the chair, the only sign of life a shallow rising and falling of his chest. As he cleaned the blood from his hook-tipped knife, he committed the list he'd forced from the man to memory. He wasn't sure if even he could commit to killing over ten Magisters during their trip to Minrathous, but knowing which ones would have agents potentially flooding the streets would be helpful. Until then, he would just have to make sure that as few agents as possible knew about their destination. They had been running into fewer agents as time went by; hopefully by the time they got to Minrathous, the Tevinter agents would have disappeared completely.

One could always hope, anyway.

With a sigh, he sheathed the knife and turned to the bed, and to the figure chained upon it. Three days had passed since the man had been captured, the lone survivor of the third group of Shadows sent after Martin by the Bastard. It had also been three days since Martin had bitten him, born of an impulse to see if it would cleanse the man of the Shadows as Martin had been cleansed. One small bite, but the first crucial step to his slowly forming plan to take down the Bastard.  _Someone who knows how the Ombre Sinistre work and owes me the debt of a lifetime... as I owe to Ives._  "I know you're awake,  _mon ami_ , Come, come, it is time to talk, no?"

The man opened his eyes, showing two orbs of beautiful brown to the world. A subtle tension left Martin's shoulders as he realized that his hunch had proven correct: the cleansing of the body brought about by Fen'Harel's modified curse extended to the eradication of the Bastard's influence they had all thought permanent. He'd been prepared to kill the man if the eyes had still been mismatched, but now that his theory had been proven correct...

_You'd best beware, Bastard._

"Martin?" the man asked with a groan. "Is that truly you? I thought... I thought it was all such a dreadful nightmare. The... the werewolf... and then the  _Wolf_..." He shuddered, but to Martin's sensitive nose, it smelled of ecstasy mixed with relief. "I- was it all a dream, or is it real?"

Martin sat down next to him, though he didn't reach to untie the chains just yet. Waving his hand over the lyrium-light to brighten it, he turned and looked at his former colleague, leaning in close so the man could see his face clearly. "Oh, it is quite real."

As Martin came clearly into view, the former Shadow's eyes widened. "Y-your eyes... They're both- How did you-?"

"Perhaps a different perspective would help?" Martin said lightly. He picked up the small mirror laying on the small table and held it over the man's face so he could see his own eyes unclouded by the Shadows' possession. "A single eye of deep blue can be so distracting,  _non?"_

The brown eyes stared into the mirror, widening as they saw their own transformation. "I thought I felt... different, but..." The man looked at Martin, awed. "So the Wolf really is a god? It wasn't just... well, you?"

Martin threw his head back and laughed as he pulled the mirror away. "Ah, no, my friend, it was not just me. Granted, I'm good at guiding hallucinations - it was part of our training - but I am not good enough to invent a god from whole cloth, nor to free a Shadow from his binds." So saying, he reached down and began to work at the chains, loosening them. "And what do you think of  _the Master_ now, hmm?"

A dreadful snarl echoed in the room. "If I had a hope of killing him, I'd jump and do it now." He blinked and glanced awkwardly up at his right hand. "Speaking of which, do you think you could take that out now?"

Martin nodded and grasped the hilt of the binding knife that pinned the hand to the corner of the bed. With a swift jerk, he removed it, causing an odd spasmodic shudder to run through the captive's body.  _What was his name? Ah, yes._  "My apologies, Armand, but I had to keep you with me until the transformation was complete, and the only way to hold a Shadow-"

"-is to pierce him with the binding blade, I know," Armand said. He flexed the damaged hand, and Martin smelled the agony that swept over the man's body in little waves - and smelled the arousal. "Will that ever go away?" the new werewolf asked a bit plaintively.

"Enjoying the pain? I do not know. That was no magic, no curse, merely the Master's whim." Martin shrugged as he released Armand's legs from their chains in quick succession. "Perhaps over time it will fade."

Armand remained silent until Martin had loosed the final bond, then began rubbing at his hand, pausing to admire his arm. "All the scars... gone." He shoved himself off the bed, grimacing at the pool of poison and blood left behind. "Hard to believe that I  _needed_  him and his poisons, preferred that... world." He shuddered. "I cannot thank you enough, Martin, though I assume you didn't do this out of the kindness of your heart." A sidelong glance still held a bit of the wariness a lesser Shadow felt towards a greater one, a habit from a world where 'greater' meant 'Master.' "Why me? What do you want from me?"

"As for why you," Martin began as he held out a towel to his fellow former Shadow, "I recalled that you once mentioned that you came from the Chantry."

The towel paused in its brisk massage of Armand's skin, then resumed as the man replied, "I was an orphan left at the Chantry's doorstep. How did you-" He snorted. "Look who I'm talking to, of course you knew."

"I also recalled that of all the Shadows I worked with, you seemed to be... a religious man, for lack of a better phrase. You worshipped the Master, as he wished, but I remember the copy of the Chant you hid." When Armand paled, Martin said quickly, "I never told the Master. I thought it... quaint, at the time. Besides, it was when I was... training you. Leeway was allowed,  _non?"_

Armand turned from Martin, jaw rippling. "You really were a sadistic bastard, you know that?"

"I was the Master's creation," Martin answered softly. "And yes, that is another reason I chose you. I knew I had to free you from that Void one way or another."

Silence answered him, though Armand did not face him again.

"As for what I want from you, I need a Shadow of my own. My path, for now, leads away from Val Royeaux, but I cannot simply forget the Bastard or assume he has forgotten me." Martin raised an eyebrow as Armand chuckled. "Your presence being a case in point. What are his plans for me?"

"Bring you back to the Shadows. I mean, it's a bad precedent that you somehow managed to free yourself, but it's more than that. You're his favorite, everyone knew that. All us Second Levels assumed you were his heir, the one who might one day rise to the Fourth Level, maybe even higher, if you survived-" He stopped. "Oh, Maker. Martin, you don't intend to-"

"I still have my binding blade. I can still jump the Veil. I am still capable of a certain amount of ruthlessness when necessary." Martin's glance moved to the Tevinter agent in the chair, then dismissed him with a shrug. "Whatever Shadow I used to be, dwelling within the Bastard's own shadow, I believe I now have the marvelous opportunity to be, shall we say,  _that much more dangerous._  I will do as you fear, it is true, but before then, I wish to  _hurt_ him. And to do that, I need to know his plans and destroy as many as I can." He gestured to Armand. "Continue. What, besides my poor self, was the focus of the Bastard before he sent you on your suicide mission to detain me?"

"Well, something came up in Minrathous. Apparently the ever-elusive Champion of Kirkwall is going to be there. Or at least,  _probably_  will be." Armand raised a hand and scratched at his neck. "Or at least, so the Crows caw. Some Second Levels intercepted some chatter between Zevran Arainai and a high-ranking Crow named Tristus. Apparently, the Hero of Ferelden - well, Arainai's agents, but then it's hard to tell where Amell ends and Arainai begins - managed to find the one person everyone in Thedas has been looking for. Want to hazard a guess?"

"Anders," Martin said softly. He knew the man's true name, but he'd never met another soul outside of Anders' small village of origin who had, so he didn't elaborate upon it.

"Yes, the man who blew up the Chantry and started this whole mess. Supposedly, he's in Minrathous - somewhere - and hiding very effectively. So, Amell had Arainai use the Crows to send a message to Hawke: bring Anders to Denerim and Amell will fix him."

Martin frowned as he mulled the information over. "The Bastard sent me to observe Marian Hawke before she earned the title  _Champion_. A formidable woman even back then, like her cousin in Denerim."

With a grin, Armand threw the towel onto the bed. "Well, you'd kind of expect the guy who killed the Archdemon and lived to be formidable. It'd be kind of disappointing if he wasn't."

"One could argue Amell's actions following the Blight to be more impressive than during. After all, Ferelden is the only country where templars and mages are not at one another's throats. An impressive oasis of peace amidst the growing chaos,  _non?_ " Martin's brows furrowed. "Yet the Bastard has been reluctant to move against Amell, and accepted my recommendation to leave Hawke alone. Why go after them now?"

"An opportunity for power?" Armand shrugged. "You know how it is. When the Master tells us to go, we go. He sent a whole bunch of Level Twos with a couple of Threes to Minrathous, to pick up Anders or Hawke. That'd be enough to capture at least one of them, I think."

"Anders, perhaps. But Hawke?" Martin thought back to the woman he'd met in Kirkwall and shook his head. "Maybe if I led the Shadows sent after them, but not otherwise."

"Still a better chance than going up against  _you_ ," Armand pointed out. "You know us too well."

"True, very true. Pity for the ones you traveled with, though admittedly I'd have more sympathy if one of them hadn't been Doren. That man enjoyed killing children entirely too much, in my humble opinion." Still, the thought kept returning to nag at Martin. "Why would Amell want Anders? I can see why he'd try to use Hawke as the errand boy - Anders was Hawke's lover at one point."

"I didn't know that," Armand said in surprise. "Our information says that the elf Fenris shares her bed."

"A more recent development. When I saw Hawke in Kirkwall, it was definitely Anders who bore the brunt of Hawke's rather infamous desire. The delightful Isabela seemed unable to stop teasing either of them about it, though Hawke took it in stride." He shrugged. "That's not important, really, aside from the fact that very shortly, if I'm analyzing this right, the four most sought-after individuals in Thedas will all be in Minrathous."

"Four...?"

Martin ticked their names off on his hand. "Hawke, Anders, Fenris, and Livilla. The Champion, the saboteur, the channel, and the catalyst."

Armand looked at the Tevinter agent again. After a moment, he strode over and crouched next to the bound man. Slowly Armand swelled, fur and fang growing in with a soft grunt - a pleasing pattern of grey and white, Martin noted with a bit of surprise, and a contrast to Martin's stark black fur in the same form. "What do those words mean, anyway? Why are they so important?"

"A channel can use lyrium for non-mage purposes. In the case of the elf Fenris, he uses his lyrium marks to enhance his prowess in battle." Martin made an expansive gesture. "Imagine an  _army_ of warriors who can use magic to enhance their attack, but do not need mages to actively keep those enhancements active, and are not reliant on weapons or armor for enchantments."

Casually Armand reached up and flicked the agent's ear, grinning toothily when the man flinched. With a raspy chuckle, he said, "Sounds like an advantage any general would want. Let me guess: Fenris was an experiment and they can't duplicate it." He flicked the agent again. "That  _is_  right, isn't it, my little breathing corpse?"

The man looked up, whimpering when he saw the werewolf next to him. "Maker,  _please_ , not  _another_ one-  _Ah!"_

Armand kept his claw sunk into the man's arm. "Answer the question."

"Y-yes, Fenris was the only one who stayed sane after the process. W-we would prefer to study him more, except he travels with the Champion."

"And a catalyst?"

The man gulped. "In our archives, it says that Archon Darinius used an object he created which allowed him to draw magic into himself without penalty or fatigue. It... it catalyzed the raw magic and gave him a limitless supply of mana with no need for lyrium. It could change the course of Thedas if we learned how to make such an artifact again."

"That sounds... dangerous." Armand turned to Martin. "Very dangerous." The man screamed as another claw joined the first in his arm. "How'd they turn the 'property' into a catalyst?"

Martin chose to answer Armand's question rather than the whimpering man tied in the chair. "Some documents were unearthed that spoke of the catalyst, and contained what the Magisters thought were instructions. The first attempt, with a chunk of basalt, leveled a city block."

"So, not so successful, then," Armand smirked.

"Not as such, no."

"D-Danarius took over after that," the man in the chair suddenly said. "He suggested using a conscious, aware vessel."

"You mean... a person?" Armand frowned. "The first attempt blew up a few buildings, how on Thedas would using a person be in any way better?"

"Oh, don't worry," Martin said in a sarcastic tone. "They used  _property_ , so no one  _important_  was at risk." The man in the chair hunched down, apparently trying to avoid Martin's gaze. "Little did they know the child they selected was a mage, and a powerful one."

"So the Shadows aren't the only ones who view children as expendable." Armand growled. "Or is it simply because she was  _property?_ " He shook his head in disgust and pulled his claws from the man's arm, ignoring the high-pitched whimper afterwards. "So, that's Livilla, then? The catalyst? I can't imagine the process was painless."

Martin realized that some of the anger he was feeling must be evident in his expression when Armand's ears laid back flat against his head. "That bad?"

"Worse." Martin took a deep breath. "The point is, it worked with her, but every subsequent attempt failed - usually with deadly collateral effects. Fenris was a partial success, but no mage could draw magic from him as they could from Livilla. So... yes, they want her back. It took them years to find her after she escaped from Minrathous. For some reason, their agents kept failing to report back."

Armand snorted. "Amateurs."

The man from Tevinter squirmed, breath coming in short gasps, but Martin and Armand ignored him. "Still, it will make Minrathous a very dangerous place very soon. Armand, do you have a description for the courier the Crows are using to get the message to Hawke?"

"Description and a name. Goes by Narcisco." Armand shrugged, an impressive gesture in his new form. "There's conflicting reports on where Narcisco went after meeting up with Hawke, but our best guess is Minrathous. I'd bet Arainai would want updates, so it makes sense. Why risk Crows to perform an action when you only need one to watch it all happen?"

Martin nodded, quickly considering all the information he had collected. "Then I think I'll continue as I was, traveling with the catalyst and protecting her from the Tevinter and myself from the Shadows. Perhaps I will run into Narcisco or Hawke in the meantime."

"What about me?"

With a grin, Martin drew Armand closer, settling a hand on his hip. "You, my delectable friend, are going to keep me abreast of every little action of our former Master. I need to know as much about their plans as possible." He gestured around them. "Use this as your base. I'm fairly certain the other Shadows know nothing about it."

Armand looked around with a moue of distaste on his face. "This-"

"Oh, not this room. This is strictly for interrogations." A gleam entered Martin's eyes as his hand slipped to Armand's back and then lower, squeezing and kneading expertly even as the action brought them into an intimate proximity. "I could show you the baths, if you prefer." For an instant, a man's face flickered in his mind's eye, bright blue eyes sending a stab of uncertainty through Martin, but he pushed it away.  _You have your Dalish Princess, my friend. I shall take what I can get._  Besides, few could understand what a Shadow had endured better than another Shadow.

An answering gleam in Armand's brown eyes showed his burgeoning interest. "That sounds intriguing." He jerked his thumb towards the Tevinter agent. "What about the breathing corpse, though?"

A movement out of the corner of Martin's eye caught his attention, and he turned to find Crow in the doorway, red eyes gleaming. "One moment," he murmured to Armand, then drew his hook-tipped knife and went to the man bound in the char. When Martin grasped his hair and jerked his head up, the agent writhed and gibbered, past coherency in his fear.

"I need something from you, a gift for a friend," Martin grated. He felt Crow come closer, heard Armand scrabble to get out of Crow's way, and smiled as the Tevinter agent choked and began to struggle wildly. "To in part repay her for what you took from her,  _non?"_

The knife gleamed as it dipped, and Martin's face remained calm as he claimed his prize, apparently oblivious to the screams which ricocheted off the walls. Releasing the hair, he carefully plucked the eye and its ragged tail from the hooked tip of the blade and set it on the table for later retrieval. With a nod to Crow, he said, "All yours, my friend."

As he led Armand from the room, lips already covering the man's fingers with kisses, the screaming behind them started anew and continued until it met a sudden, gasping end.


	17. Never Forget

 

**Chapter Seventeen: Never Forget  
**

 

* * *

Martin smelled the rain on the wind just before Artana held up her hand to halt them. With a frown, she looked at the sun just kissing the horizon. "Jean, how near are we to Trevis?"

Jean closed his eyes to consult the map in his head, a trick which never ceased to impress Martin. The man seemed to be a walking map, each step along the way mentally recorded with precision as they went. "I think we will reach Trevis tomorrow, perhaps an hour or two before sunset."

Artana was silent a moment as she considered that, then nodded. "We camp now. We have pushed the horses enough." The crystal clear sky apparently did not fool her, either, though he was unsure how she knew of the coming rain.  _Dalish magic?_ he wondered as she announced, "Raise the tarp for the horses and pitch your tents. It will storm tonight."

Crow neighed as he followed the others to an open space a hundred or so paces off the road, a sound that Martin recognized as a mocking laugh. Martin knew why: he had never before bothered with a tent. Granted, he had also never traveled in company overnight, since the Shadows had other methods of transport. Sleeping in the dirt certainly never came up. He slid from Crow's back and glanced at the rest of the party, pondering his options since he didn't particularly want to live with the smell of wet fur.

His gaze lingered on Ives, busy with the task of raising his own tent, but when Martin moved it was to aid Livilla and Isabeau in setting up their tent. Jean was busy with the tarp for the horses, a vital task with which he seemed quite familiar. For a few minutes, the main sounds in their chosen camping ground were the hammering of stakes and the curt orders of Artana as she briefly directed Ives and Jean to the final tasks of setting up camp.

Once Livilla and Isabeau were situated, Martin walked to the horse tarp, regarding it with a thoughtful look on his face. At least the horses were  _warm_. Perhaps a tall tree...

The scent of lavender drew near, and he turned to find Ives at his elbow. "Ah ... don't you have a tent?" Ives asked. This close, Martin could detect a veritable cloud of scents dancing in the air around the bard, so complex he had difficulty sorting through them. The concept of smelling emotion remained new to Martin, and he did not quite trust his interpretation of what he smelled. Why would Ives smell nervous and uncertain, yet bear a confident, easy smile? That expression was also at odds with the manner in which the bard's heart pounded in his chest. "A tarp, at least,  _ami_?"

"No, sadly. The stores in Hunter Fell weren't particularly well-stocked even had I thought to purchase one." He grinned ruefully, scratching at the back of his neck as he glanced aside. "I am not accustomed to traveling with a group. I suppose I could spend the night with the horses. I'm no delicate Orlesian flower, after all."

He felt a bit nervous talking to the man, honestly, after his odd epiphany following his night with the Wolf. Ives hadn't done more than look at him in the days following their departure from Hunter Fell, only talking with Martin if it were a group conversation - and there were precious few of those save around the campfire.  _And night is when I usually hunt._  Hunting in a storm did not appeal, though, and he hadn't caught a whiff of prey all day, either Tevinter or Shadow. He hesitated, then ventured, "Unless you have a spare?"

"I... ah, lala, sadly not." Clearly, Ives wasn't quite himself for some reason. It could have been the awkwardness of their last kiss lingering between them, given the man's scent and the tinge of... anticipation? Reluctance? "I was thinking, provided you don't sprout fur and try to gnaw on me, you could ... ah, well, my tent, it is a large enough for two... And Artana and Jean..." He paused then smiled at Martin. "Surely my company would be preferred to the horses,  _oui?_ "

Martin chuckled, still confused by the conflict between what his nose and his eyes told him of the bard's emotional state. With those he knew well, such as Isabeau and Livilla, he could more quickly determine exactly what their scents denoted. With Ives, he found himself at a loss more often than not. At the moment, Ives seemed outwardly friendly, if perhaps a bit scattered, but his scent... It was, to put a word to it, adorable in its shy eagerness -  _if_  Martin was interpreting his nose correctly _._  "Are you offering your tent for the night?"

"Ah, yes. Yes, that is precisely what I am offering." The scent firmed a bit, becoming more confident.

The scent of wind was rising, the rain moved ever closer, and a handsome bard wished to share his tent with him.  _What a shame it will not be more._  "Thank you. Let me fetch my packs."

"But of course,  _mon ami._ " After a quick stop by the horses to pick up their packs - since Martin had a rather extensive poison kit he preferred to keep away from others if possible - they squeezed through the tent flap just as the first cold winds began to whip the nearby trees into a frenzy. The light hadn't gone completely from the sky yet, but it was dimming swiftly.

"'Twill be a cold, dark night," Ives predicted. "Better to have two in each tent,  _non?_  Easier to keep warm."

Martin didn't answer right away. In the confined space of the tent, the scents around Ives had intensified, accenting both the lavender overtone that seemed to be the bard's signature and the subtle fluctuations of the  _other_  scents. A new one had appeared when Ives spoke of keeping warm, one which Martin had scented only once before, when he had passed by the man's sleeping roll and heard the soft murmurs and groans of a man whose dreams were full of desire. Yet why-?

Shaking his head, he settled his pack on the ground, digging through his pack to make sure the poison kit had not shifted. "Granted, that would have been true with the horses. Still, I prefer the scent of lavender to that of- of horse." He faltered when the lavender came closer. A glance showed that Ives was simply laying his bedroll flat, nothing more. An obscure sense of disappointment flashed through Martin, but he quickly suppressed it.

"If we go many more days without bathing, it won't be the scent of lavender in the air," Ives laughed. "You lived in Orlais long enough. Did you never feel the draw of scented soaps yourself? I would think you... hmm, ah, well, I'm not sure... it's hard to venture guesses on such a thing without becoming a trifle... personal, I think. Ah, lala." The bard settled down onto his bedroll, sitting cross legged upon the pallet.

"Hmm, no. Scents make one noticeable, a liability for such as I was." Martin's grin faltered when he realized that his words served as a reminder of his past, but he continued on. "I wouldn't know where to start for myself. So much has changed."

"I think that a good thing," Ives said softly after a moment. "You really do seem so different."

Again, a shift in scent, but Martin was hopeless to know what it meant. "More handsome,  _non?"_ Martin chuckled, and Ives tried to match the gusto in his own.

"I was wondering where a few of your little scars have gone... but you always wear so much in the way of clothes, I can only see so much."

"You object to too many clothes?" The mild flirting helped put Martin at ease with the bard. They were both trained to the Game of Orlais, after all, and flirting was one of the first aspects any Player mastered. Since he could not approach Ives in the way he secretly desired, the light flirting of friendship seemed... safe.  _Mostly._  "It would be a pity to replace those scars with a sunburn, though. Of course, then I wouldn't be able to wear clothes at all until the burn faded. I suppose I could persuade Livilla to heal it."

"That's an interesting notion in its own right," Ives theorized, "Could she heal any of your scars? Did she? The one on your lip, I noticed the very first day that it had gone. I wasn't sure what to make of it. It ... may seem a contradictory thing for me to say, as I often proclaim scars are a thing to be ignored in measuring a person's beauty - and it is true, they are - but ... I admit, they can also inhibit one's sense of their  _own_  beauty. Even I sought to mend those little trifles you've seen before. Of course, demon scars are magical. Persistent indeed."

Satisfied that his poison kit was safely stowed, Martin glanced over at Ives and caught Ives in a gesture he'd noticed several times since joining their merry little band: stroking his goatee with those long, talented fingers. Martin dropped his gaze as he suddenly realized how often he'd been glancing at the bard during their journey. "Ah, well, it was your gift. I thought you knew."  _Both of them,_ he added silently. "The amulet. I had a... a dream, you could say, and received the blessing of a god, as I told your brother. I still have some of my old scars, of course, but I would need to bare more than my soul to you for you to see them."

"I might like both," Ives muttered under his breath. To normal ears, it would have passed unheard, or at least unintelligible. To Martin's newly enhanced senses, however...

Martin's skin heated, and he looked away, pretending to hunt for something in his pack. "What was that,  _ami?"_  he said, trying to sound nonchalant.

Before Ives could respond, the flap of the tent rustled again. With the rumble of thunder and the beginning taps of rain on the tent, the reflective quality of Artana's eyes against her pallor was not the kindest first glance one could have to begin with, but the scrutiny she inflicted onto Martin was overbearing. "Ives, if you will keep an ear out the first three hours, I will take the remainder of the night until Jean wakes in the morning. Will you be ... comfortable with that arrangement?"

Martin returned the scrutiny, though he kept silent. He knew his presence in their group was by her forbearance alone, a hedge against the possibility he might become a werewolf. The irony might cause a smile to come to his face during the day, but in the current situation, it only made him more cautious around her.

However, he detected another subtle change in Ives, as the scent of desire increased - an alteration he suspected was linked solely to Artana's presence.  _He must connect being in a tent with Artana._ Abruptly the man's scent at the comment of  _keeping warm_  in a tent made sense. Of  _course_  he would think of Artana in a tent, perhaps especially because Artana lay with Jean tonight. As much as he would have liked to believe that the reason Ives held his pack so awkwardly was due to his own humble self, Martin knew Artana would ever and always be the bard's main focus.

"Exceedingly," Ives insisted, waving one hand to add gesture to the reassurance. "I was just thinking how useful Martin would be to help me with the watch, actually. You watch, we'll be the best of friends by morning."

Somehow, that only caused Artana's eyes to narrow even further, a soft, "Mmm," her only response before easing back from the tent and letting the flap drop closed again.

"Best of friends, hmm?" Martin asked after he was sure Artana wouldn't overhear. Even if the flirting would lead nowhere, given Ives' devotion to Artana, he saw no need to antagonize the formidable woman - for Ives' sake, if for no other reason.

"A short trip, I think," Ives offered, an innocent and fetching grin on his face. "For all you might claim you are worse than I, I'm not so ready and willing to claim it as true. I think I see a fair bit between us. Ah - similarities, I mean."

Martin glanced at the pack propped as a pillow on the bard's bedroll. "Unless you are hiding a bag filled entirely with thumbs, I have trouble believing that statement," he pointed out. "Though your handling of the situation with the Nevarran ambassador was masterly. Did you coach that whore, or did all that actually happen?"

The smile froze in place on Ives' face, though a hand rose and began playing with the laces of his tunic. "You ... know about that, do you? Ah ... it ... it all did happen, but, I cannot deny a heavy hand in all of it. He -  _she_  was an impostor, and it was for the best we unearthed that fact. I... do my best to protect the Empress." His eyes looked down, scrutinizing the ends of the laces now entangled on his fingers. After a silent moment during which the scents shifted and danced around him in an incomprehensible fashion, he said, "Forgive me, but it sounds like perhaps you know more than I expected about my sins. Perhaps more than I like that you do."

Martin frowned slightly, not quite sure how to respond. Finally he moved to sit next to Ives on the man's bedroll, wanting to speak softly yet still be heard over the increasing sound of the rain falling on the tent. "I am not a simple man,  _ami._ I have earned several names, many of which I would prefer to forget. Do not think of me as a bard. I was trained to intrigue, but that was not- not truly my  _task_ , though I spent time at the Court as well." So many names... names of fear, of respect, of hate, and none of them brought him anything but pain now. "You were of note at her Court: the youngest bard of Celene's personal Corps, and your name was upon the lips of the Lady Dowager. Of course I would pay attention."

The hand playing with the laces paused, then pressed itself against the bard's chest. Martin watched with a raised brow as Ives slipped it beneath the collar of his shirt and patted the spot gently, curious as to why a scent he could only call  _relief_  filled the tent for a moment after he did so. "Well, I am nothing if not an overachiever. Here I thought you might have paid me mind for my looks alone. For what it is worth, we did not kill that imposter."

"I know  _you_ did not." It slipped out before he could stop it, and for a moment he looked away, his body unconsciously following. He didn't want to remind Ives of his own sins. Martin's preference would be for Ives to never  _know_  of them, impossible as that would likely prove to be.

Ives reached for Martin, halting his retreat. "You ... don't need to pull away. And there is no need for guilt. If it had been my decision, honestly, I think I may have done the same. You see? Not so different."

Martin stilled, then turned to look at Ives. He certainly did not know  _everything_  about the man. It had been a purely professional interest before, and Ives had been but one of several bards the Bastard had instructed him to observe. Martin could likely write a short treatise on what he knew of Ives and his activities, but for his own sins, a far longer novel would be required. To him, it simply didn't matter that the Bastard had sent him on the missions, or that he had had a spell laid on him. His hand had wielded the knife, or given the poison, or used any one of the number of methods he'd used to end a life... and it was his mind which had found pleasure in it. He could force himself to forget for a while, but not forever.

Placing his hand on the other man's arm, he gave Ives a sad smile. "I am not sure I can believe that." The words came out more softly than he intended, barely audible above the drumming of the rain.

Silence reigned in the tent, broken only by the steadily increasing fury of the rain. The bard's brows furrowed tightly together, and his teeth began to worry lightly at his lower lip. The last of the relief faded from his scent, replaced by something more ephemeral, a scent at once beautiful and sorrowful. The only word Martin could apply to it was  _yearning_ , though it was certainly not for sex - Martin had accidentally caught Ives and Artana in a riverbed only two nights ago, so he was certain of that.

Instinctively he moved his hand up the arm where it lay, wrapping it around the bard's neck to gently knead the tension it found there. He moved closer to accommodate the motion, his only concern to make that smell change to something more pleasant,  _happier._  "Tell me. Tell me what I need to know." He wasn't sure why he chose those words, but it  _fit,_  somehow. A part of Martin wondered if Ives was as uncertain as he was to the nature of that need, that  _yearning_. Certainly the bard hesitated, tried to speak, then hesitated again before forming up any proper thoughts.

"To be fair, there is much I cannot. I wish that I could, to push that weight from my shoulders and my heart, but even with you, one who would  _understand_ , I... I cannot. To say that is likely to say too much." Ives sighed heavily, and Martin shifted his position so he could wrap his hand around Ives' shoulders.

"I know exactly what you mean." Martin's other hand rose, hesitant at first as to what to do, and settled for resting on the side of the man's face, turning the man's face so could look into the bright blue eyes. Though to his wolf-enhanced eyes the interior of the tent was as bright as late afternoon, this close he knew even Ives could see him. "There are some burdens so heavy they cannot rise from the heart to be spoken, to be shown to the light. This is what you mean,  _non?"_

Ives answered with a smile, a distinct sadness behind those eyes. "In a way, I envy the curse you once had. Terrible to say, perhaps, but I think that it would have made my life much less painful. There are tortures not of the body, after all. I shudder to think of the enemies I have made, the pain I have caused, the lives I have ruined, all in the names of the Durantes, or Orlais, or even Artana. She ... demands protection I think even her hawk's eyes cannot perceive."

Ives heaved a sigh, and reached up to hold on tightly to cuff of Martin's sleeve, fingers flexing and twisting as he spoke. "You... you understand that world, where pragmatism dictates actions rather than morality. You know how those choices simmer inside, a constant poison within for the rest of our lives - a life that, in a different time or place, might have been happy - and ... still, you  _must_  choose against your better judgement. For that, I apologize... though, in the same breath, I'd also never apologize. Ah, lala. Do you think me selfish to be glad to have you here, in that same place as I am?"

Martin breathed out a laugh, feeling a very unwise urge to kiss the man rising in him. Struggling against it, he settled for embracing Ives tightly, astonished at the hint of moisture in his own eyes. "As selfish as I?" Distantly he was aware that his vocal affectations had faded away, something which generally only happened under conscious control. "The shadows are a cold and lonely place. I will not reject to any... companionship offered to me while there."  _Ah, dangerous words._  Quickly he released Ives, putting the man at arm's length before the embrace turned into more than what the bard was willing to give.

Ives shifted, blue eyes staring back at him. "... Are you ... not Orlesian?" It seemed the abandoned accent had not slipped by the man's notice.

"I was born in Orlais, yes, but I was trained a Shadow. We are - I was not allowed to remain Orlesian, in some ways." How to explain the harrowing of his mind, of what had been done to him to remove such a fundamental concept as  _identity?_  He shook his head. "A blank slate is more easily written upon, for the Shadows' purpose."

"I think I know someone who feels something the same," Ives said thoughtfully. "And come to think of it, I have heard you use other accents. I know a few myself," he touted an Antivan twinge for that line, "and have picked some up in my travels," he added with the more plain note of a Ferelden. "But you seem to speak them so comfortably as your own. Do you know anything ... exotic?" Ives wondered, a little smirk on his face.

It would take a stronger man than Martin to resist that smirk, especially with the man so close and the need to drive away his unhappiness so strong. Picking an accent not often heard in the streets of Val Royeaux due to the division of Black and White Divines and their respective opinions on the matter of religion, he rolled into an exact mimic of a Tevinter magister he had once... dealt with. "I am not sure about exotic, but I assure you, my tongue is quite skilled. At languages, of course."

It seemed Martin had struck an unexpected chord with his choice. "So - ah, so it is," Ives agreed, his hand having so subtly grasped Martin's a little tighter. The man shifted to direct his eyes elsewhere than the green above him, but the explosion of scents was impossible for Martin to avoid the same way, particularly the return of that elusive scent he strongly suspected denoted  _desire_. "A, ah, curious choice,  _oui?_  You must be a... well-travelled man."

Martin licked his lips, that change in scents catching him a bit by surprise. He'd been looking to lighten the mood, to comfort, not to... He couldn't help it, he buried his nose in the bard's hair and inhaled slowly. It was either that or begin tearing off clothes, but he still had the self-control to avoid  _that_.

Barely. Holding Ives so tightly had only increased the man's temperature, and with such heat against the cold, such emotion in the air, and Ives pressed near his heart...

"You - you ... you're missing some more scars," Ives said in a strange voice. Martin heard the thrum of the bard's heart, racing almost as fast as his own. "Not that I ... am intentionally gazing into your shirt. We just... ah, we never spoke about your intervention with a god?" Spoken like a man truly desperate to change the subject.

A small shudder ran through Martin's body as he wrenched himself away from that heavenly scent of lavender and lust. "Ah... Ah, yes, the god." He pushed away from the bard, sliding off the bedroll and scooting back until he felt his head hit the slope of the tent. He could see Ives almost perfectly even in the darkness, but was quite grateful that the reverse was not true. The pressure rising in his groin required a bit of covert manipulation, after all. He bit his lip when he saw Ives perform the same maneuver, the man unaware that the darkness failed to hide his actions.

"The god," Martin repeated, hoping the memory of the nightmare would help him to control himself. "Ah, he was quite a large wolf, and at first... at first I thought it was a Fade nightmare, with a demon or some such." Granted, most people were not familiar with how the Fade worked, since perhaps only mages knew more about the Fade than the Shadows did, but he continued regardless, hoping it would make sense to Ives. His voice grew stronger as he continued, the recollection serving to dampen his ardor. He also forced his Orlesian lilt to return, hoping he could use it to hide other emotions. "Ah, so so, he told me this and that, then informed me I would be tested. He showed me terrible things, I survived them, and then I killed a demon. Somewhere in all that, the scars... vanished."

"He was fascinating to me. I'd ... never met anyone - or anything - quite like it," Ives recalled in a tone of wonder. "Would it seem silly to say I think it would be difficult to still claim myself Andrastian? You think that you comprehend religion, that you understand it is a game of hope and belief whose sole purpose is simply to test you, and then ... then you ... I don't know if the Maker is a real or false god, but having  _met_  a god now, it seems so different. Of course, I suppose he gave me my prayer without giving me anything at all. I will have my heart's desire..." He fell quiet, and Martin supposed Ives was again relying on the blanket of night to be unseen as he frowned and rubbed the back of his neck. "Well... at any rate, beyond all of this useless prattle, he didn't test me like that. What of your curse, Martin? Was he ... able to help? Or do we still need to fear the next full moon?"

"We need not fear the full moon."  _Heart's desire? Ah, perhaps to no longer share Artana with Jean? I wonder if the Wolf has the power to interfere in such things, though Isabeau would be most happy with the man._  The thought carried not the pain it had only a few short weeks ago. In fact, the thought of his little angel with the warrior now pleased him. "It was a powerful curse, but he is a god,  _non?_ I will need to perform certain tasks for him in repayment, as it were, but for the moment we need not worry of uncontrollable fur sprouting and animalistic fury." He chuckled. "Although when he took the Bastard's scars away, he added one of his own. A black wolf's paw now rests over my heart, just as with my dear dark beauty."

"Well, one day, when we don't have to dig for a candle or lamp and then something to light it with, I'd ... like to see. A mark over the heart is something significant to a Durante... They say that Henri de Montfort bore a  _fleur de lis_ on his..." Again he repeated the odd gesture of rubbing his heart, and again Martin supposed he was complacent in his blindness. "It's ... almost anti-climactic, isn't it? Your curse, I mean. Healed when no one was watching. What will you have to do?"

Avoiding entirely the concept of healing, Martin shrugged. "Apparently he is not the only god, and they wish to return. My task is to aid them in this return." Though the Wolf had not forbidden him to tell others of the details of his mission, habit kept his words vague. "I have the feeling that first I must head north, but nothing more than that at the moment, so I am content to travel with you. I have had enough of traveling alone." The last words escaped with a trifle more sadness than he expected, and he cleared his throat. "After all, a horse is not a very talkative companion."  _Sorry, Crow._

Ives nodded. He didn't seek out eye contact given the circumstances, but he did blindly reach a hand out to try for some manner of contact. When he found what Martin hoped Ives supposed was his thigh, he said, "I saw that loneliness when we met. Maybe more than just our travel paths are meant to overlap. A friend to explore a new religion with? Perhaps we can call our shadows the shade now, and do our best to linger in it like a summer's day. A matter of perspective,  _non_?"

Martin took a deep breath, fighting the surge that raced through him at the bard's touch.  _Only a few more inches, and it would not have been_ just _a thigh._  Clearing his throat slightly, he said, "I would like that." And he truly would, he knew, even if he could have nothing more from Ives.

Ives did smile at that, hand squeezing before he released Martin. "I have read it a thousand different ways if I have read it once: A man is made by the decisions he makes. I am glad I decided to trust you, Martin. For once in my life, I ... truly feel like I've done something right. So strange, I never really got that feeling from giving to the poor or slaying terrible monsters. I must have a truly ... skewed sense of reality, ah, lala. Those things just don't feel as important. I'm sure I'm rambling now. I should stop."

"Ah, but you gave to a poor lost soul and changed his life, did you not? Three gifts, to be precise, each more precious than the last." Martin allowed his eyes to linger on the man's face, enjoying the quiet moment and the rambling. He felt completely at ease for the first time in... well, in  _years_. In fact...

A warmth stole over Martin as he suddenly realized that Ives now felt like  _home,_  the lavender as soothing to him as the faint smell of apples had been in the de Brienne estates of his youth. He kept his lips shut, not trusting himself to speak for a moment, and fought the impulse that again rose within him to pull Ives into his arms and...

He shook his head as Ives began speaking again. "I suppose we must take care at Satinalia. To give each other the same gift twice is a most egregious  _faux paus._ " Ives uttered half a chuckle, a little grin on his face. "But I would think changing a life is a very precious gift indeed. I thought that was the first. What would be more precious?"

_Give each other the same gift?_ "Your music freed me from the past, ridding me of the Bastard and his influence, when I thought it all but impossible. The amulet gave me a future, one without the certain doom of fur and fang ruling my existence." Martin hesitated, unsure whether it would be wise to discuss the third gift in detail, considering their situation. Finally, he said, "And then you gave me hope. There cannot be anything more precious than that, can there? But I must confess confusion concerning your words,  _ami._  The gifts I gave you..." He thought of them, particularly the flute case and the daggers. "They were nowhere near the significance of those you gave to me."

"Can you be so sure of that?" Ives inquired, a look of consideration on his face. "I wanted to prove I was right about you, so I played the song to see if you could regret. I wanted to see you live to find your way, so that I wouldn't have to endure the pain of unfairness should you die after being freed, so I prayed to whatever god would listen. I told you. I've ... never felt so accomplished. I've never felt so inspired. You helped me to find a god I could truly believe in, advertent or no and... and... Ah, lala, I think I will just say that I am truly glad to ... to be where we are. I found a beautiful man beneath all the scars and poison. There are those who dream that their selfishness could be so fruitful in any part."

"Selfish how?"

"Among those listed, in a way Artana would not soon forgive me for," Ives muttered.

Martin decided that the words were just loud enough he could have legitimately heard them without wolfish ears, even over the rain. He closed his eyes, struggling with himself, knowing he should suggest that perhaps it would be better if he simply leave. Instead, he whispered, "Then perhaps I am just as selfish, for I desperately wish to give you something of equal measure to your last gift."

Martin wasn't sure if it was a trick of his ears or not, but he was fairly certain he'd just heard Ives' heart thrum as loudly as a peal of thunder.

"You ... mean the kiss, don't you?" Ives wasn't the terrible liar his brother was, but his body certainly wouldn't subscribe to refusal, the  _interest_  scrawled across him like bold words on a page.

Slowly Martin moved closer to Ives, drawn by the scent of desire and the sound of his heart. "When I was in the Fade, I had to... in a measure, confront certain aspects of myself, ones which continue to haunt. Yet at the worst moment, when I... might have lost hope, I remembered... yes, I remembered that kiss." Settling next to Ives, he reached over and put his hand on Ives' neck and found a pulse racing to match his own. "It reminded me that there was someone who did not... dislike me." When Ives licked his lips, Martin bit his own, and his hand moved from the neck to cup the bard's cheek, thumb lightly caressing the newly moistened surface. "The...  _desire_  to return the favor has been burning in me ever since."

The gasp which escaped from Ives' lips, coupled with the sudden spike in his scent of that  _desire_  which so tormented him, was almost Martin's undoing. His hand moved up to tangle in Ives' hair as he leaned closer, though he forced himself not to pull but rather let Ives choose to come to him.  _The Bastard never gave me a choice._  Martin closed his eyes as he felt a hot breath against his lips, and knew that the bard was close enough for the heat of their breaths to mingle.

Yet the kiss did not land. It was, to put it in a word,  _maddening._  He could smell the man's desire, the  _arousal_  - a sharp, musky scent that made his groin ache in response - and knew Ives desperately wanted that kiss... but he also smelled the hesitation, strong enough to keep their lips a hair's breadth apart.

Finally, with a strangled gasp, Ives pulled his head back, enough so their mouths no longer exchanged air. "She... she would know." His tongue emerged to lick his lips, dry from the panting. "I cannot- she would-"

"She would know." Artana's sharp eyes missed very little - it was one reason Martin tended to ride in the back, so she wouldn't notice any inevitable slips he made regarding his condition. "And you need her. I understand, I can- I can see it in your face." He'd almost said  _smell_ , knowing that the scent around Ives when he was in Artana's presence was... arresting.  _Addicting._  No matter how he yearned for Ives to feel that way about him, he would not interfere in such a beautiful thing. Artana did not deserve that, and Ives would tear himself apart if he lost her.

Reaching for his pack, he pulled it over his shoulder and rose into a crouch.

"Wait - you're ... not thinking of leaving, are you?" Ives reached out blindly and found Martin's arm, guilt tinging the air in the tent. "I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable with my confessions, Martin. Perhaps I was out of line, but I won't have you sleep in the rain, or with the horses. Perhaps we should both just lay down. I don't want you to go, besides."

Martin's jaw rippled as he fought between his impulse to flee and the need in Ives' voice. Still, no matter what he chose to do, he could not let Ives suffer from such a misconception. Setting the pack down, he moved until he could rest his hands on the man's shoulder, close enough that Ives could see his face even in the darkness. "Your confessions have nothing to do with this. That shady glen in the shadows, I do not wish it to feel like anything but a place to rest with a friend." He took a deep breath, which, this close, might have been a mistake. "I do wish a friendship with you."  _I am simply afraid I will always want more._  "If you truly wish it, I will stay."

"Of course I want you to stay," Ives said softly in return. "I ... Perhaps I shouldn't even let it bother me so. We may never even wed." That notion made him sigh, and the guilt in his scent indicated how strongly the thought of acting against her affected him. "She is ... she's jealous, and it would almost certainly come down to a choice. I wish that you knew her better. Perhaps then you would understand the treacherous footing, and why it is still worth the climb."

After a moment of further thought, in which he battled the physical need in his body in the same way he fought with the pain which had once plagued every morning, Martin set a chaste kiss on Ives' forehead and sat back, putting a safe distance between them. "Tell me. It... It will help, to understand what you share, I think."  _I hope._

"Where to begin?" Ives sighed, repeating the motions from earlier in the night - a hand raked through his hair, then lowered to fidget with his tunic's laces. "Jean was torn asunder by Cateline's death." Martin could not stop the wince of guilt, but he was glad Ives could not see it. He remained silent as Ives continued. "For a time it consumed him, and I could do nothing. We had grown apart, you see. He was a Chevalier, I a Court Bard of the Empress, and our paths had separated years before."

"Two very different worlds," Martin offered when Ives had fallen silent for a moment too long.

"They are indeed,  _ami_. When Cateline passed, I did what I could, especially with the children. Poor little Bernard... to never know twin or mother." Martin closed his eyes and bowed his head, but listened closely as Ives continued. "Jean took his duties as father quite seriously, and quickly saw that a Chevalier's duties would keep him away from the children, and looked for something which would keep him in the city. And... well, I was... weary of the Court." Martin heard a further tale hidden behind those words, but now seemed not the time to inquire. "So we decided to join the Wardens together, the first time we had done something as brothers in years."

"I presume the old man disowning you was not in the plan?"

"Ah, well, no, but we have learned over the years to ignore the puff-headed cretin. Jean was more important to me than anything that parasite - not that I have strong feelings on the matter, mind - could promise, and Jean needed a purpose which would not steal him from his children. Granted, we did not know of certain aspects of being a Grey Warden at the time, but I think we would still have chosen the path, nonetheless."

Martin smiled. "You said that you envied my curse. I... admit, I envy you your choice, unpleasant as some aspects turned out to be."

"More for me than Jean, I think. You see, I... well, I was... always so envious of the life he'd had when he was married. A loving wife, beautiful children, a home full of..." That scent of yearning returned, fierce and strong. "...of love. I lost any hope of that when we joined the Wardens, or so I thought. But then I met Artana... and saw hope at least for the love of a strong woman, a woman with whom I could spend my life. What I did not know was that Jean had come to the same conclusion - about the same woman."

Again, silence fell over the tent, and Ives' scent shifted and swirled. Martin caught whiffs of desire, lust, yearning, confusion - all in a melange too complex to decipher. "That must have been... awkward."

Ives chuckled softly. "Oh, it was. Even worse, we both decided to approach her and pour our hearts out to her on the very same night. It was ... well, horrible. We fought, and screamed, threw punches... Ah, lala, I can think of only one other time that hurt us quite so much, and our relationship was far more tremulous this time. Twins shouldn't fight, you know? They know all too well how to hurt the other _._  It might have gone so very badly if not for her ... domineering heroism. I mean that in the best of ways. Ah, she was magnificent! For all her lack of height, she still managed to drop us both most expertly on our asses." Martin joined Ives in his chuckle: it  _was_  an amusing thought, after all, and Martin had his suspicions about both brothers and their attraction to women of a particular type.

"After she tended our wounds, she told us that she would entertain both of our fancies until such a time as it became clear which of the relationship was the stronger. It... just happened that neither of us ever grew apart from her. And we  _do_  love her. I think neither of us wants to leave her, even if ... well... even if Jean isn't so pleased to share."

"It is not Jean's jealousy of which I am concerned," Martin admitted. "Still, I am glad to know the details. I am sure,  _ami_ , that could I see your face, I would behold a most wonderful expression of love." It tore at Martin to see the expression, to smell that divine scent that he now knew was  _love_  coming from Ives, yet at the same time it was absolutely beautiful as well. Not even the lust and desire he'd coaxed from Ives earlier came close to the almost overwhelming aroma that permeated the tent now. As much as he might wish to be the cause of such a reaction, he could not deny its purity or power. "I admit to a curiosity as to why she is so, ah..."

"Jealous? Ah, lala, no denying that she is quite possessive of us. But she has reason to feel that way." Ives' tone grew more somber. "Good reason. Over time, she told us of her past. She is from Ferelden originally, from a Dalish clan there. From what I know, it was all she truly wanted in life - and perhaps is, still, what she wants, though she cannot have it." The bard sighed, more than a touch of elegant melancholy in the sound. "She was to be mated - what we would call 'married' - to a man with whom she was desperately in love. A few days before that happy event, tragedy struck during what should have been a routine scout patrol. She was left... well, as she is now, and he- Perhaps it is best to hope he died, considering that he was closer to the taint than she." He looked to the side, perhaps unconsciously seeking the tent where Artana slept. "She was all of seventeen."

_Young enough to be foolish, old enough to pay the consequences._  Isabeau's Great-Aunt Matilde had told him that once, long and long ago, and the words had never left him. "She survived to join the Wardens. A woman of remarkable strength,  _non?"_  Martin did admire her, despite their less than comfortable interactions, and he certainly understood what it was to lose one's world at a young age.

" _Oui._  And it explains why she holds on to us so very fiercely. Elves, they mate for life, and usually only once. Moreover, when she accepted me -  _us_  - she gave up any hope of returning to her people to live out the rest of her life, long or short as that may be. The Dalish, they do not understand love between elves and humans, and they would shun her for her choice. We  _are_  her clan, her family, now." Ives spoke with a voice colored with both wonder and regret. "As much as I want what Jean had, as much as I wish for it with Artana, so too does she desperately want the same. She... just does not know with whom she wishes it, yet." Ives gave a helpless little shrug, more an expression of his frustration than out of any expectation that Martin can see it. "I... I cannot leave her, nor can i betray her. To do so when she has given us so very much, and has given  _up_  so very much to be with me -  _us..._ " His voice trailed away. "So... that is where it stands. Despite what the Wolf promised me, I can... I can see no way to have my heart's desire." Ives turned his head down to look at his hands. "Yet, at least."

Martin moved to sit next to Ives, holding him simply as a friend to comfort him. "If it is any consolation," he said softly, "Isabeau would love to be of assistance for at least part of the problem, if your brother proves amenable."

Ives chuckled half heartedly. "I would prefer suggestions that would ease my heart's confusion, not encumber it further."

"I... I wish I had some that were not wholly and completely self-serving. Perhaps... perhaps it is your test?"

"Ah, lala, I have long been a man who hardly believed a god existed in the world, and now I am suddenly of interest enough to one that I am some manner of game to him,  _non_? ... Ah, well, I cannot say it is not undeniably my luck. Perhaps I am a far more important person than I ever realized. I haven't the heart to ever hurt Artana. I just ... don't know that I have the heart to ... ignore my heart." He leaned slightly into Martin, but offered nothing more. "But here we are, walking thirty minutes back in our conversation, and for what? Another go around to the same place?"

"Or perhaps forging a new path. I will... I will accept what you can offer,  _ami,_  and always be grateful for it. Even if it is a place in your tent during a storm, or a shade hidden in shadows after a choice has been made." He leaned over and planted a light kiss on the man's ear, trying to be chaste despite the heady smell of lavender. "We will be friends,  _are_  friends, and friends are there to support each other,  _non?_  I may be new to the concept, admittedly, but that is what I recall."

Though Ives couldn't see if he wasn't but an inch or two away from Martin, apparently, he could hear. With a little chuckle in his voice, he wondered, "Why do you keep smelling me?"

_Merde._  "Perhaps I simply love the smell of lavender?" he said. "You cannot deny it to be a most pleasing scent. You selected it, after all."

"A merchant selected it," he said with continued amusement. "That handsome blond fence you scared. I never did change the habit."

"Hmm, then he has good taste. Do you wish me to stop?" The question began in jest, but somehow turned into a serious question midway through.

"Stop what? Charming me? Fascinating me with how you're such a remarkable person after all you've been through? Oh - the smelling? No. But it's very canine, don't you think? Given the context, it's made me wonder."

Thinking quickly, Martin laughed, able to make it seem unforced. "Ah, but perhaps one night is enough to pick up some bad habits. Or maybe the Wolf has a sense of humor and is making me act like a dog. When I start hunting for fleas, you have my permission to push me into the nearest river for a dip." He hugged Ives close, then let go. "Perhaps I could curl up at the end of your bedroll and whine in my dreams. Would that complete the picture of pathetic pup?"

"Of the two of us, I don't think it will be you making sounds in his dreams," Ives murmured. "Ah, but you are right. I'm sure my shift is nearly over, and you clearly know better than I what is good for me. Thank you for being the strong one. At the least, it means I'll perhaps even get a little sleep tonight. You too, I hope?"

" _Oui, mon ami."_ He patted Ives on the knee and then heaved himself to the other side of the tent, tugging his pack into place as a pillow. "Time for sleep."

"Did you manage to set up your bed at least? I can't quite recall myself."

"It's on my list to purchase in the next town," Martin assured him with a chuckle. "Along with a tent. Who knows how long we will be traveling,  _non?_  Hopefully this will be the last storm I need weather in such a woefully unprepared manner." He watched as Ives began to rearrange his bedroll, then realized what the man meant to do. "Ah, no, do not worry about me. I wouldn't want you to freeze because of me. Better one of us is completely comfortable than both half-icicle. I've endured harsh nights before."  _The Bastard did like his stocks, after all... or rather, me_ in _them._

"And you won't anymore," Ives stubbornly pressed.

Martin hesitated, then acquiesced to the man's wish. He surreptitiously tugged straight the parts Ives hadn't been able to see in the darkness, then moved his pack over to the roll, trying not to get too close, for both their sakes. "Thank you. You know, I am quickly racking up quite the debt of gratitude to you."

"Then begin repaying it by insisting a fourth tent is too much burden to the horses," Ives said, finally settling down. He fluffed his bag and rested his head, staring aimlessly into the darkness. "I don't like spending nights alone."

Martin lay flat, though he turned his head to look at Ives. A half-dozen responses ran through his head, but all that came out was, "Good." A series of nights passed through his head. The ones with the Bastard, which rarely involved actual sleep, he carefully shied away from, instead choosing to remember the other nights. On a boulder, lying on the grass, floating in a still pond... The location didn't matter, save that he was away from the pain, from the possession, from the Shadows...

But always alone.

Hesitantly his hand reached out, his sudden desire for a warm touch overpowering his common sense, and threaded his fingers through the bard's. He didn't speak, just waited to see how Ives would respond, ready to withdraw if necessary. Though Ives did seem to tense, the hand was not pulled away. In fact, once that surprise passed, Ives squeezed, pulse jumping in his palm, and smiled.

"Sleep well, Martin."

"And you, Ives."

He watched Ives fall asleep, heart and breathing relaxing into sleep. Eventually the bard's movements took his hand away, and Martin quietly sat up, watching the man carefully and letting himself revel in all the various elements of the scents made by his dreams. He wished he had his paper and lead, but he didn't want to risk shadow-jumping to where he had left it, afraid the action might wake Ives.

Part of him wished he could sleep next to the man, but he was too afraid of what would happen if Ives awoke first and then tried to awaken him... He shuddered.  _Best not to risk it._  He allowed himself the small measure of the half-sleeping while sitting he'd perfected over the years, rousing every time Ives shifted in his sleep.

And it was still the best night of sleep he'd had in years.


	18. Uneasy Truce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The group of Wardens encounter an unexpected Champion on their way to Minrathous.

* * *

 

**Chapter Eighteen: Uneasy Truce  
**

 

* * *

 

Ives was looking at  _that man_ again. Artana's back stiffened, her grasp subtly tightening in the coarse hair of her horse's mane. She had decided previously that, so long as Ives always looked back at her in the end, she could endure the annoyance, but the more she realized the looks weren't so much out of curiosity and scrutiny, the more she was starting to think better of that decision.

Her need to keep a watchful eye on  _that man_  was eroding away, as well - Hunter Fell was a over a week in the past now and no one had heard a howl or suffered itchy patches of fur. While that didn't discount the likelihood he had become a werewolf, she believed in the power of the Forest - if he was not spreading his corruption and not harming anyone, then she need not scrutinize. The most damning and suspicious thing in that regard was Martin's nightly disappearances, currently more an irritation than anything. What could one do with a charge who would not respect his own position and allow himself to be watched?

Forcing herself to calm, Artana took a breath and repeated part of the  _Vir Tanadahl_ , the Way of the Hunter, to herself:  _Fly straight and do not waver._ At least she still had the benefit of his ignorance; he seemed oblivious to her knowledge, or at least made no effort to act around it.

"What a welcome change of scenery!" Ives exclaimed as they entered the outskirts of Marnus Pell. Artana wasn't so certain she agreed: they had left the comfort of the wilderness and entered a city whose buildings were mostly wooden, underscoring how little money came through. The town hall was impressive, at least, made of stone in a style she had learned well after traversing so many Imperium ruins. "I thought if I saw another foot of road, I might collapse entirely and weep. Ahh, and look at the sea!" Ives continued. His passion did require some credit.

"The Nocen Sea," Jean nodded. His knowledge of geography was ever-impressive. The discipline it must have taken to memorize so much terrain by paper alone constantly piqued her interest. "I know why we have come here... we are taking a ferry into Minrathous,  _oui_?"

Artana nodded in response when he directed his gaze towards her, slipping off of her horse in a fluid, easy motion. "We save two days this way, and the horses can be stabled here to rest. We will be gone only around a week." Her eyes shifted this way and that, taking in their surroundings. There were only a few people in the streets at all, and the one she did manage to land her eyes on quickly ducked inside the nearest building. "The population in this city does not match the number of buildings."

Ives shared her concern as the man retreated. "If anything, I would have thought they'd be making remarks I would be most unhappy to hear,  _amour_. While I am glad that I won't need to punch anybody with my delicate knuckles, we should perhaps seek enlightenment. The stable keeper? A weighty bag of gold should end this confusion."

Martin turned to look at Artana. "Can you not smell the fear? This city is awash with it." His horse snorted, which for some reason made Martin grin momentarily before scanning the city around them again. "It is odd, though. I have not sm- seen any agents of Tevinter since two nights ago." Abruptly he slid off Crow, patting his mount's flank three times. As her eyes narrowed in scrutiny, Crow neighed, then cantered off, heading to a nearby alley. "I shall investigate."

Then  _that man_  moved to an entirely  _different_ dark alleyway than his horse, and disappeared.

Even as Artana shook her head, Livilla rolled her eye. "I don't suppose  _that_  will ever change. Still, he's right. They're not afraid of  _us_ , they're afraid in general. I wonder if the ferries are even running if the city is this paralyzed."

" _Oui,_  so, let us be on our way," Ives said, flourishing one hand while the other led his horse. Artana shook her head, but followed along at his side nonetheless. "There is no better way to get information - or the information of how to get the information - than to simply ask. Think, five horses for a week? Anyone who would pay your expenses for the month in one sweep is a fine guest to have indeed."

Ives might have been convinced, but Artana wasn't surprised at all when the stable hand stopped them. To his credit, she had expected him to say something far more colorful than, "No room," when he saw her at the head of the pack

Her eyes shifted to Ives. He had turned abruptly, walking heel behind heel alongside Carrot so that he could face those walking behind him. In particular he sought her and Livilla's attention as he silently mouthed, " _Forgive me,_ " a look of desperate apology in his eyes. After that he cleared his throat and righted himself, a soft chuckle in his voice. "I only want to stable the horses, not the servant, friend. I am sure you can see that I travel as guard to a rather important Warden, too,  _non_? We have come a long way. Surely you have enough room. We're quite prepared to pay in advance."

Now that she understood the need to beg forgiveness, Artana did her best to hold her tongue. She had to admit that Ives' nature did yield impressive results. The methods could use consideration, she figured, but it would be very surprising to her if they walked out without their horses well-taken care of and the information they desired. Not that her glare helped, but to her eyes the stable hand did not seem convinced of her station.

"I ... guess it depends how long you need 'em kept," he said.

"A week," Ives replied, gesturing with his hands. Artana wondered if that was supposed to make him seem friendlier, or to just lessen the burden of the week by making a downward motion. A merchant's life had never been for her, much less that of a bard. Either seemed like a colossal waste of energy to get to a point that should have been easy to reach, yet ceremonially became mired in conversation and haggling. Apparently, he was even  _still_  talking. "... and if we go over, of course, we'll pay you when we return. It certainly shouldn't be two. I admit, the reception about town is so ... cold, I am left wondering what is wrong, exactly. Perhaps we should ride on..."

"The horses'll be safe." The hand held out his hand for the coins, a tactic that struck Artana as greedy.  _Not that I should be surprised._  "And I'll tell you what's wrong. It's damned vigilantes, that's what it is. Fade-blighted fools don't have any idea how life works around here. You ain't spending the two weeks  _here_ , are you?"

"Ah, no, friend," Ives quickly returned, again gesturing with his hands - this time he waved them to indicate 'no.' "We have business north, at the Keep. So ... these vigilantes, you say... have they at least left you alone, hmm?"

"Hah, I wish. They've holed themselves up in the damn inn, waitin' for the ferry to arrive. They strong-armed themselves - threatened the poor innkeeper. Good riddance to bad rubbish when they're gone. Try this nonsense in Minrathous, the guards'll have their heads."

Well, Artana had to admit: Ives had stabled their horses, avoided being pressed for a higher rate, found out who was causing the fear, and where they were hiding. Clearly they were an enemy of the Imperium, too, which almost certainly made them a friend in arms.

"Sweet justice,  _non_?" Ives chuckled, placing the last of the coins in the man's hands. "That should cover it. We'll get our things and be on our way. Servant, that bag." Another gesture, this one dismissive and directed towards Carrot's saddlebags. Artana glanced to Livilla, curious how she would handle the ruse.

Admirably enough, Livilla - and everyone else, for that matter - kept tight lips until their belongings were free of the horses, save for the saddles, and on their backs instead. Once down and away down the road, Artana's eyes darted to Ives again when he repeated the earlier feat of walking backwards. He had a pitiful, pleading pout on his face and directed to the entirety of the group, though most particularly the two women. "A thousand,  _thousand_  apologies, my brothers and sisters. I would  _never_ , I am sure you realize, but when in the Imperium, I thought it best to do as the Tevene do."

Artana smirked, her opinion on the absurdity of such games undoubtedly already known. "Mn." In some ways, she wondered if Ives knew more about slavery than she ever would - his lower region did seem to hold him by a chain some days.

Livilla stole her attention with a derisive snort. "Do not apologize for the sins of others, lout. It's unbecoming." Considering the delay near Trevis, Artana had to commend Livilla for at least  _seeming_  calm - the most nervous of her actions was to tug her cloak close around her. "I presume we're going to find these 'vigilantes?' It would be entertaining, if nothing else, to at least discover why they are so loathed and feared. And a laugh would do us all some good, I suspect."

"Indeed," Isabeau answered. With her arm healed, Artana noticed that her morale was restored. "Although I was probably predisposed to dislike the Tevene, I can't say my first impression of them has made me want to reconsider that opinion."

When Isabeau gasped, Artana followed her eyes in a swift dart, just catching the retreat of a tanned elf with shock-white hair and lightly glowing marks all down his arms and face. They may have gone farther, but he was wearing a black and silver armor of custom design, a sword on his back that looked entirely too large for him. It was a fleeting glance, but she could not have missed his piercing green eyes or the fact that, despite his plated armor, he wore no shoes.

Ives hadn't been so lucky to catch even that glance. "Something wrong,  _chèrie_?" He asked Isabeau.

"I think that I found our targets, unless there's some  _other_  fascinating looking elf in this city that can dismiss a group such as ours with a single glance. He went into that inn over there," Isabeau pointed, her head slightly cocked.

Livilla chuckled. "The one Martin is sitting on top of?"

The group collectively looked to the roofline, only a suggestion of movement appearing to even Artana's discerning eye. The elf's ear twitched slightly as Isabeau sighed and called her by name, but it didn't draw her eyes away. "Well, Commander? It  _would_ make the most sense if Martin is there."

Artana nodded, taking the lead. As she moved she pulled her quiver a little higher on her shoulder, intending to look more intimidating. Never before coming to a land of Slavers, where almost all elves made themselves as small as they possibly could, had she ever let the notion that she  _wasn't_  intimidating cross her mind.

The inn was warm and brightly lit by a fire, candles, and two large windows opened out to the sea. Windows were expensive, so they stood out in contrast to what Artana had seen of the rest of the town. The inn was immaculate, the cleanliness no doubt thanks to an unpaid elf, and it was also entirely empty save for one little band. They were immensely unique individuals: the elf from earlier; a woman with short cropped hair that was nevertheless chaotic and a streak of war paint across her nose; and a dwarf with a suave face and sleek, blonde hair. The woman wore dark, complicated armor and carried what seemed to be the offspring of a mage's staff and a pole-arm. The dwarf carried a crossbow and wore a thick leather jacket that was left open to a sea of chest hair. In just a few seconds, Artana had seen enough to equate the dwarf to Ives, and note that the elf and the mage were a couple. The elf's hands, laid possessively as they were on the human's shoulder as he looked at Artana's group, indicated his feelings clearly enough, but the sound slap on the elf's ass as the human grinned up at him rather clinched the impression.

Her eyes darted again, this time to the innkeeper. "No vacancy!" he squawked.

Ives laughed. "We hear more and more of that these days. We just want to meet the rumored vigilantes." He gestured broadly when he gained their attention with that line, certain their collective looked just as bizarre as the one they were facing. "Hello, friends! I hear we're of a like mind and heading to a like place. Shall we be introduced, to break the ice? I am the fantastic Ives Durante, and this is my surly brother, Jean." His brother, of course, softly  _hmph_ ed, and Artana smirked. Jean was not what she would describe as surly. Quiet, maybe, when not laughing, but not surly. "Here we have the stunning Warden-Commander Mahariel-"

"Artana." She corrected, glancing at Ives to scold him lightly. He knew she preferred to downplay the formalities.

Nodding and doing his best to gracefully continue, Ives added, "-and the lovely Isabeau and..."

"Livilla." A deep, unfamiliar voice said the name, causing everyone to pause and look at the tall elf with the white hair.

Artana heard the elf's mate wonder quietly, "Friend of yours from back when, love?"

There was a rustle of fabric as Livilla threw back the hood of her cloak. "Fenris. You always could sense me." Artana glanced at Livilla, finding her expression serious as she scrutinized Fenris. "I see that he added more… decorations after I took my leave from Danarius. Damn that guard! If he hadn't seen you when you were helping me..." Livilla took a few steps forward. "Yet here you are, despite the fact that I was sure you were going to be quite well punished for the attempted escape."

"I do not remember helping you," Fenris said, his tone fairly dry of emotion, much like his face. "I imagine I may have, but I am only very slowly regaining my memories from that time. Danarius often took whatever hope he could from me... but I have since made my peace with that."

"Fenris ripped out the bastard's heart," the woman beamed proudly on his behalf, raising a hand to pat the elf's clawed gauntlet. "Well, it sounds like you all really are friends of ours if you're travelling with someone who used to be under that son of a bitch. Heading to Minrathous, then?"

"Well, of course we are." Artana's eyes jumped yet again, this time to the kitchen door.  _That man_  sauntered into the room, vigorously running a cloth over a dagger. "Isn't that where everyone seems to be heading? Ah, so so, pardon me - I had to look for a cleaning cloth. I hate sheathing my blades until I've gotten  _all_  the blood off."

"Look, Fenris," Hawke said in a loud mock-whisper, a clank of a plate shoulder against her plate breastplate. "Everybody's got a murder knife!"

Martin laughed merrily and collapsed into a nearby chair, then looked at the innkeeper. "I suppose some wine is out of the question? Your selection of alcohol was distressingly poor when I looked into it, you know."

"And... this is Martin." Ives was finally able to finish his introductions, but not without rolling his eyes.

The yet unnamed woman chuckled. "Right, the ... weird, creepy, dark one. Gotcha."

"I object to that very much. As you will notice, only my  _hair_  is dark. I even wore lighter-colored clothes today." Artana noticed that Martin never missed an opportunity to add a flourish. He flipped his dagger before sheathing it, then continued, "If you're going to apply cliches to my person, perhaps we could at least be accurate,  _non_? 'Weird, creepy, and sadistic,' that is more the norm."

"Hey, look, Hawke! It took us forever, but we finally found one that makes the jokes  _for_  you." The dwarf gestured widely, the only one whose name was now uncertain in Artana's mind.

"Stuff it, Varric."  _Problem solved,_  Artana thought, the woman named Hawke reaching out to hit Varric's arm. She seemed to have violent tendencies. "Well, all our names are out in the air. I've already forgotten  _most_  of yours, but if you two," she gestured between Jean and Ives, "want to ... properly acquaint me... at the same time, maybe? Ow! Stop squeezing my shoulder like that, Fenris. I'd want you in the mix, too."

Artana cleared her throat slightly, but it was Ives who leaped in to interject before she could, or for that matter, before Jean could make any kind of commotion. "Ah, lala, but we are spoken for,  _mademoiselle._ "

"They are," Artana agreed with smooth finality, enough to lay claim without being too sour about it.

"Oh, well... that's a damn shame," Hawke pouted grandly, but reached above her head to drag a finger along Fenris' jawline. "So," she continued in disconnect to the motion, "Ser Stabs A Lot-"

" _Moi_?" Martin wondered with such feigned innocence that Artana nearly grunted. She was certain her expression had darkened at the least. "Ah, so so, I believe I would prefer, 'Ser Killer', or perhaps 'Ser Death'. Besides, when I see a man beating an elf for no good reason, I decide that a little corrective action is a most excellent lesson to give. Do you not agree?"

"Ah, well, Ser  _Gripes_  A Lot, that answers my next question. So long as they deserved it," Hawke made another gesture with her gauntleted hand and rolled her shoulders.

To his credit, Artana had to admit that Martin was quick to wit. "Hmph. At least call me Ser Grips A Lot. That is my third favorite activity, you know."

"' _And so begins the penis jokes,'_  the disgruntled dwarf mutters aside woefully to his empty tankard," Varic rolled his eyes. Artana felt her brows knit slightly, finding the way he spoke strange and narrative; it was as if he read from a book - and she read very few books, since reading was still something she was working to perfect.

"Well, a lively band I see here. Incidentally," Martin said, and Artana could  _feel_  him turn to look at Ives, so she turned as well. "I have decided you should have this back." A pouch of coins was tossed in Ives' direction, but Artana snatched it from the air. It was reflex, honestly, but she couldn't complain that it might have insinuated her stepping between Ives and  _that man_. "I did not like the attitude towards the dear dark beauty or your elven princess at all. Hopefully, they won't open the pouch I left in its place for a while, as it would be a pity if they were to be too indisposed to feed the horses." He paused for just a moment to purse his lips thoughtfully. "Although, I'm sure Crow will follow my instructions most assiduously, in that case."

"Ah ... I, would rather hope they get fed as well," Ives hesitantly said. Artana surmised he was as confused by the gibberish  _that man_ had just spoken as she was. To her surprise, Ives' arm snaked around her waist not a breath's length after that thought, diverting her eyes, and this time her thoughts along with it. A clever motion, she supposed, for what it was worth. "Something I am most certain you and I shall be discussing before we depart. But! I find the more pressing question at this precise moment to be for Ser Hawke. The uppity stable master called you... vigilantes?" He awaited a response with one brow quirked high.

"We have ... relieved a number of Tevene slavers of their cargo. ... And their lives." Fenris answered for him, a note of dark humor in his voice that surprised Artana after his earlier dry tone. Knowing Livilla and their shared master, she wondered if maybe she shouldn't have been.

"Hawke..." Jean murmured, raising a hand to rub his chin. Artana felt the name was familiar, too, so she hoped for his success in jogging the memory. "Hawke..."

"Say it three times, and I'll appear in your bedroom naked at midnight."

"Hawke, Hawke, Hawke," Martin crooned. "Oh, I  _am_  sorry, I thought you were talking to me." Artana rolled her eyes, even less certain how  _that man_  even had Ives' remote attention.

The rather red Chevalier cleared his throat. "I just … it was familiar, is all. A friend of mine, a Templar-"

"Whoa, easy.  _Very few_  Templars are  _any_  friend of mine since the Circles started rebelling." Hawke held up a hand, the joking suddenly over. While there wasn't a threat  _yet_  in the air, Artana regarded the tension very seriously, her bow never beyond a few seconds' readiness. There was a seriousness in Hawke's eyes so contrary to the joking that Artana was certain she would be a formidable opponent... if it came to that. "You aren't heading to Minrathous on a manhunt, are you? Because we're going to get Anders, and that's that. Any competition is just going to have to be treated like it, particularly ones that are hoping to stamp a sun on his forehead for good measure before they let the rest roll off his shoulders."

Before Jean could stammer an apology, Martin leaned forward. That did not help Artana's tension - she shifted her eyes between both sources of her unease. " _Anders_ , you say?" There was an odd light in his eyes, and a smirk that spoke of secrets on his face. "That name seems to be on so many delectable lips these days. The Bastard had no bounty on his head  _per se,_  but he became most fascinated by the man due to his connection to the so-called Hero of Ferelden." The way Martin folded his arms behind his head as he leaned back again into his chair dripped of arrogance to her, whether or not it was the intent. Then again, she just disliked him. "Still, if Anders had wanted to avoid notice, perhaps he should have also avoided demolishing the local architecture of Kirkwall, despite the excessive ugliness of its residents. Once a friend, always a friend, even for a Champion,  _non_?"

"Kirkwall." Jean snapped his fingers, the distraction of identifying Hawke welcome after his moment of extreme crimson. "The Templars were sent after the Chantry was blown up. You... You're Ser Marian Hawke. You're the Champion... you fought the Arishok in  _single combat_ -"

"And kicked his sodding ass." Hawke agreed. "I didn't realize all of that was public information, though." She wasn't looking at Jean as she replied - she was looking at Martin. "If it weren't for my sneaky little cousin's blond hunk of an elf, I never would have gotten the lead for where Anders ran off to."

_That man_ grinned, returning Hawke's look boldly. If it weren't so infuriatingly cocky, she might have merely regarded it as a successful social tactic. "Ah, the enchanting Zevran. Yes, yes, I remember him well. Pity, really, he also did not want to 'share'."

"You'll notice Fenris isn't commenting. You should ask him about  _Isabela and wine_ ," Varric said with a snicker.

"Oh, believe me, I fully intend to. My interest had not yet been piqued towards men." Artana's head turned more quickly than he could unsheath his odd dagger to brandish it once more. No amount of practiced stoicism could keep the glare from her face at that not so subtle remark. Even Ives had squeezed her waist more tightly by the time Martin said, "Although I  _am_ glad I was able to help the little former black bird. A pity I could not enjoy the sights of Kirkwall with you, limited as they are. The  _Blooming Rose_  seemed to be quite the lively place to get acquainted,  _non?_ " Carefully inserting the tip of his dagger under his nails to pick them clean, he added casually, "Ah, so so, you seek this Anders, then. And you suspect we do as well? Would you be astonished to learn we are not searching for him, unlike almost every other organization of note in Thedas?"

"What I think my … adjusting friend is asking, is if there is something we might be able to assist with..?" Ives smoothed out the ample bumps in what Martin had placed on the table, hoping it would cover a little more warmly and leave out some of that excessive cold.

"No," Hawke said immediately, leaning back a bit.

"Because we are not looking for Anders," Ives re-emphasized. "We are looking for three terribly tainted amulets, or a tome outlining the location of said elusive objects. Should we see Anders, you would be the first to know."

"Yeah, right. We all know you're Wardens, and you all know he was a Warden... Disciplinary actions, anyone? Thanks, but I think we're going to stick solo on ours. But if we tear up the Circle Library before you get there, I'll let you know if anything screams Darkspawn." Artana wasn't certain what to think of the way Hawke's demeanor could change so quickly. Not three minutes ago, she had been laughing.

"You know, it just  _might_  be possible that he is not without allies besides yourself,"  _that man_  said quietly. His face was entirely too serious compared to his usual demeanor, and his knife had mysteriously disappeared.

"If there are allies, it is true they are not Wardens, but we are disinvolved with this war." Artana finally couldn't stand (what she considered to be) any more bickering, particularly considering how much of the talking came from  _him_.

"That's right, huh. Ever since Kirkwall, it's gotten worse and worse... Templars and Mages, the whole damn world's up in arms and taking sides. So you're a Warden-Commander, and you're telling me you're not on the side of appreciating mages and their freedom?" Varric asked, shifting to lounge back in his chair.

"Willing warriors are taken from any background. I would agree that mages are useful. In some measure, I may be one myself in  _shemlen_  standards, but it is to them - the  _shemlen_  of religion - that this battle belongs. Wardens are obligated to stay politically neutral." Ives tugged at her waist, earning her attention, and she looked at him to see what he wanted. He had pulled a chair over, and motioned with his eyes to invite her into it. After a moment she acquiesced, sharing the chair with him by sitting on his lap. He hooked his arms around her waist. "If there is a Darkspawn resurgence, they will not care if they attack mage or Templar."

Neither Varric nor Hawke had retorted yet, so she supposed they must have been satisfied with that answer. Hawke was being odd again, a small, thoughtful frown on her face. "So ... you don't know of a Carver Hawke, do you? The Wardens sent him east to deal with some kind of 'rising problem,' but no one could or would tell me what was going on out there."

"I am from Orlais. I know what is going on in the northeast but I am not at liberty to discuss it. I assume your relative will face no greater danger than he would on usual assignments, considering how many are assigned to the … problem." Artana turned her head, vaguely aware of her long ponytail hitting Ives' face in the process.

"I've really got to learn how to do that," Varric said, "It's gotta be a damn useful talent to say so much and yet say absolutely nothing at all."

Martin laughed. "And here you go, letting us know of your complete lack of self-awareness, my voluble friend. Why, I could-" He stopped, sniffing the air. The change of expression in his face was disturbingly sudden as he shot to his feet. "Pardon me, my friends, there is... something I need attend to."

When Artana felt Ives shift beneath her as if to follow, she frowned and stood herself, pressing Ives firmly into his chair with a warning glare. The bard's brows furrowed as he glanced at  _that man's_  retreating back, but after another look at Artana's expression he settled back into his chair without further objection.

In a small yard behind the inn she found him, scanning the skyline of the surrounding buildings with a wary tension in his shoulders. Quickly but silently she readied her bow, nocked an arrow and, when she saw a hint of movement in the shadow behind and to the right of Martin, fired.

Martin spun around as the body materialized fully and slumped to the ground behind him. Before she could speak, Martin tackled the man, pinning him with his knees, and sank his short blade into one of the man's eyes. Artana's eyes widened as a cold wind suddenly rushed down the alley  _into_  the man's body, which twisted in on itself as if it were a corpse. When Martin tipped it over, she saw a face that looked as if it had been dead for twenty years, the knife wound she'd seen Martin inflict barely visible amidst the wrinkles and shrunken tissue.

With a grunt, Martin stood, his dagger disappearing once more, though this time, Artana saw him at least put it into his sleeve. By the time he looked at her intensely she was staring back with narrowed eyes, the silence stretching for a few moments. Just before she snapped at him, he said quietly, "That was Tanacht, one of the Bastard's favorites for... particularly nasty jobs. I am impressed." There was no flourish, no exaggerated hand movements; in fact, even his Orlesian accent seemed to have disappeared. "And not even a hint of fear. You are a most formidable woman."

Rather than lower her bow or be shocked or stunned, the creaking sound of a tightening grip against polished wood resonated in the quiet alleyway. Artana didn't directly point her bow at him, but the implication was clear enough that he, too, could have an arrow in him before he could blink. "I will give you only one opportunity to explain this."

Ignoring the body, he stepped closer to her, stopping just shy of touching her bow. His demeanor remained sober, the volume of his voice so low she could barely hear it despite his proximity. "The man who once held my leash is proving to be a most jealous master. At first he wished me dead, but now it seems he wants me returned to lick at his feet again. I do not wish to return." He glanced up at a nearby roof, then back down at Artana. "He is most persistent. I sought to protect those less skilled than you from harm by fighting them on my own."

Artana's eyes darted to follow his, but didn't leave him for more than a fraction of a second, her trust for the man still abysmal. "And you were like this man?" She pointed with her bow without breaking eye contact, the tension still in her line. Artana had shot at such a tight range before, the potency of the taint that threatened her life offering a small consolation by granting her superhuman strength.

"I was far worse," Martin said quietly. For a moment he closed his eyes and bowed his head, though her shorter height let her see his brows knit and his mouth twist for a brief second before he looked up and smiled at her. "I suppose some would argue I still am, while others... others would argue otherwise." He lifted an eyebrow as he looked her up and down, a bit of the lilt returning to his voice. "You do not trust me, and yet you have no fear of me. That is... rare, in my experience."

Artana's eyes narrowed slightly. She wasn't sure what emotion ran through his mind when that look was on his face, but she knew precisely who he meant to give him that credit for improvement. Artana still couldn't understand why Ives was so drawn in, and her hand tightened around the bow's handle with another groaning squeak.  _Do not waver._  Her jealousy, though well-founded, would not make it to her face or leave her lips. It would be weakness to submit, no matter how much she wished to strike him for  _that_. Another reason may yet present itself, she hoped, at which point perhaps she could justify indulging.

"You smell that of me," she guessed, her voice still firm. For all she had seen tonight and in the past days of travel, to know how he sensed fear, to see him be so nimble when he by no means should be... she had verified her suspicions more than well enough. "I have no fear of werewolves." Artana's eyes bore directly into his, and it was true: she had no fear.

He moved forward a bare amount, his eyes not leaving hers. A hint of amber overlaid the forest green of his eyes as she watched, a match for her own gaze, as an almost predatory grin came to his lips. "Again, I am most impressed. Are you sure two are enough for such a magnificent specimen as yourself?"

In the space of two very loud heartbeats, Artana worked through what he had said and what he had  _meant_ , and once she decided she didn't like it - or at least, was unsure what to think about it - she  _reacted_. And if it took only one heartbeat to realize that he had  _dared_  to  _proposition_  her in any measure, the physical response took less than one.

She twisted, using the nimbleness of a body built for it to knee him in the gut all in the same motion as hooking her bow around his neck. Exploiting his slight doubling to finish the job, her foot swept his legs from under him while she flanked him in one smooth motion. With the added pressure of her weight and a leg against the ground she rode him to the dirt, trapping his neck with the handle of her bow, her hands holding the curves to exert pressure. With her full weight she sat on him and dug her knee against his shoulder blades so that he had to choose between struggling against her and avoiding sharp pain.

An odd shudder ran through his body as he struggled slightly before relaxing underneath her. His breaths came in heaving gasps, enough to lift her slightly with each intake of air. "Ah, so so, you have me at your advantage." A hand suddenly slipped over her ankle, but did no more than wrap loosely around it. "I wonder what you will do with it?"

Artana shifted instinctively against the touch, her weight leaning to the one side so she could pin her elbow against the offending arm's shoulder. Since he hadn't grasped threateningly yet she did manage to stop herself before digging down too painfully, but the Commander had to admit there were parts of her that hadn't wanted to stop. "It is harder and harder to justify your presence on this journey,  _shemlen_. This sacred ink on my face, this  _vallaslin_ , dedicates me to the Huntress, Andruil. You can assure yourself, then, that if this mission we are on is derailed by any of your antics, I will leave this world stalking her path. I will hunt you,  _shemlen_ , until the taint takes me." Her voice was low, her overall tone calm and even, but there was no mistaking the presence of more raw emotion than the woman usually exhibited. Apparently, he had gotten to her, but she herself wondered why or what about him had done so.

Martin stilled beneath her, even his breathing seeming to come to a halt. Finally he turned his head slowly, as much as he could manage, his eyes meeting hers with extreme difficulty. "I am dedicated, as well, to the purpose of a god, though he may be one you distrust. It is his purpose which drives me north, in search of that which is sacred to all gods so that they might be healed." He shifted slowly beneath her, never in any manner threatening, so he could see her more clearly. "Tell me what I need pledge to you, in honor and deed, and it shall be done. I am all too keenly aware that you have no cause to trust me, but I lack the knowledge of something so basic as knowing how to earn such a thing. I kill the Shadows and the Tevene which follow us out of a need to protect both the body and the mind, the one from harm and the other from terror. What shall I do to make these actions... acceptable to you? I do not wish to risk danger to my dear dark beauty, or to my angel. That is  _my_  fear."

Artana held firm in her position as he spoke, her ears burning with what she presumed was rage just from hearing his very voice. It was not something simple to explain, even to her own mind. The tension in the air grew as she remained silent, her creaking bow the only sound for several long moments while Artana decided how she should - no,  _must_  act. In the end, she released him. Her only selfish (and thereby weak) moment was to be rather rough with pulling her bow out from under his chin.

"I am a Commander, not a slave master. My men choose to follow me, or they choose not to do so." By now she had stood, and she even offered him the end of her bow to help himself up with. "If you leave the group, you chose to not. If you sabotage the group, you choose my vengeance. So too my mates may choose for themselves," she added. Her tone was just  _slightly_  off from neutral and she could tell it herself, her immediate thought following to wonder if he could smell her jealousy.

He took the bow she offered, though the way he moved as he stood suggested he hadn't particularly needed it. "Ah, so that is a part of this," he said softly. "I will not insult you with denial, as the mere topic itself could be seen as an insult. Let us say, the discussion ended with Ives and his love for you. In fact, it began with that love as well. I will not take your mate from you, and neither will he take himself from you." The look of regret on his face was clear, but he met her gaze the entire time he spoke. "Though you need no aid to enact your own satisfaction should I stray from this assurance, I would offer it to you without resistance if I took such a precious beauty from you. I simply wish you could trust such words, but that is entirely my failing and none of yours."

Artana glared. Her mind was silent... frustratingly so. She still did not know what to think or how to alleviate this ... impulse to simply  _hate_  him for what seemed to be no other reason but just  _to_   _hate him._ He promised to back away from Ives, but that didn't ignore the possibility that Ives would not back away from him. He insisted he was going to continue protecting the group, but he was more than half the reason they were under attack in the first place. Artana struggled with a silent mind, but never went too long without enforcing decisiveness. She stepped forward, a breath away from him. It was true that the highest top of her bundled hair didn't reach his shoulder, but she still managed to face him with the presence of someone his height.

"In the presence of proof, trust is unnecessary. The ferry is arriving. ... Clean up, and do not be tardy,  _Fen'era._ "

A smile tugged at his mouth. " _Fen_ , I believe, is wolf, but I admit I do not know the meaning of  _era_. Dare I hope it is not too insulting? Or have I lost any reason to beg for such mercy from you?"

Artana snorted, but even she was unsure whether it was due to annoyance or amusement. "In this language,  _era_  means many things. It is 'story,' it is 'dream'... it can also be used to say 'nightmare.' If this task you describe was offered by Fen'Harel, it may be either. But I have already said my piece on proof and trust. I do not need to say the same of that god when it is clearly the same. Ives asks me more of him every time we rest together... if he has converted Ives and drawn him away from the  _shemlen_ god, the Wolf has earned my wary tolerance."

The man looked down at her for a long moment, his smirk blending into a soft smile. "I am glad the Wolf has not caused trouble between you and your mate. You are beautiful together, and your love for each other smells truly divine." He glanced towards the rooftop, and his posture changed, from relaxed to tense. "There will be a few minutes yet before the ferry leaves,  _non?_  I know it is not to your taste to see me hunt alone, but it might be better to deal with the problem outside the confines of a boat." His green eyes turned to look at her, and again that hint of amber rose in their depths. "I will leave the decision to you, as you prefer."

Artana looked to the roof lines, but she didn't see more than an occasional hint of movement. Why they wouldn't attack while Martin was pinned or discussing something, she wouldn't know - it wasn't an advantage  _she_  would have ignored.

"If you can make the boat before it leaves, then do what you need. I will return to the others, if you have learned to watch behind you."

"Ah, a fair hit, in very deed. Believe me when I say I would rather follow you to the ferry, but their uncertainty is fading." Suddenly he bowed and took her hand, lightly brushing his lips over her knuckles, and just as suddenly stepped back and away, leaping onto a nearby barrel to vault to the closest roof. Somehow he almost seemed to be a shadow himself once above, though Artana was certain it had to be but a trick of the eye. Eyes that were once again in a glare, the back of her hand rubbed feverishly against her armor, as if his kiss had left behind something vile.

_That man_  was  _tedious._  Artana turned and left the alley, the arrow she had dropped to restrain Martin once again nocked in the interest of safety. Now, she just had to survive the boat ride. She had never been on a boat before.

.~^~.

The two unique groups parted ways at the docks of Minrathous a day and a half later. Almost everyone had gotten well-acquainted with the card game Wicked Grace by the end of that trip, and learned that Fenris was actually both an avid gambler and drinker. Artana noticed that Isabeau refrained from playing at all, preferring to stay above deck when the games were going on, and that Fenris and Livilla had a few intense, long conversations, then never spoke again.  _That man_  and Marian had some more-than-friendly drinks together, but the glare from the white-haired elf interrupted them before Hawke's cabin below was sought out for even more intimate activity. All of that thankfully got left behind on the ship where it best belonged, out of sight and mind until someone needed blackmail ammunition.

The city itself was one of marble and stone, with exotic designs cut into every building. Ornate buttresses and colourful windows, usually reserved for the most prominent of Chantries in the rest of Thedas, could be spotted on almost every pointed-arch door or splayed rose window. There were domes and gabled roofs, paved streets, and, occasionally, elevated walkways from tower to tower. Every large building seemed to have a second, smaller building out back... and it took no genius to realize that was where the 'servants' lived. The Warden's Keep wasn't actually attached to the city proper, but was instead just outside the city walls on the inland side.

At the center of the town loomed three  _massive_  buildings, each boasting thinness of walls and as many windows as they possibly fit could between their spiraled porphyry and verd columns. The oldest and most thick-walled of them all was rather unapologetic for its relatively primitive structure. That last building was the library itself and it had been built in almost the time of Ostagar, when the Imperium reached every corner of Thedas. The Archon's palace, the northernmost of the trio, had been rebuilt after a rebellion, and the Magister's Senate was often remodeled simply to boast the wealth and power that daily occupied it.

"We should find a place to stay near the library." Artana had to tilt her head completely back to look up at some of the buildings, an uncomfortable affair in her full parade armor. She had to suppose that if she  _weren't_  in her full parade armor, she would have different discomforts to deal with. It might have been fun to challenge the public perception if she'd had time, though, and wasn't concerned about the possibility of being overwhelmed. The docks and its district had been a little rough, so it might have been easy to start a tussle, but directly above began the lines of guards. The nicer end of the crafts district served as the 'filter' between the bad districts towards the inland and the fine, wealthy estates towards the center of the city and overlooking the cliffs on the north end. Unfortunately for their purses, the library was nearer the latter. "It will be expensive, but the least amount of time will be spent each day in commute. I will need to wear my armor at all times here."

Livilla looked around apprehensively. Artana could feel her tension through a common thread. With slavery so rampant here, any elf had reason to be nervous, even if their once-masters were dead. "That is likely a good idea. It would be best if I avoided going out as much as possible, unless you find some scrolls in Arlathan era Elvhen that need deciphering."

Looking at the library, Isabeau's voice was full of enough wonder for Artana to look her direction as she said, "And it's all  _books?_ " Smiling widely, she clapped her hands. "That's wonderful!" As the Commander let one brow slightly quirk, Isabeau quickly cleared her throat and said, "So how do we find a place to stay? I'm sure they must have  _some_ quarters for visiting scholars to use while studying the contents of the library."

"Then we will begin our search at the library itself. There is still daylight, and it would be best not to waste it." Artana began up the hill that stood between them and the great Tevinter library, no doubt the most extensive in all of Thedas.

A hand lightly brushed down Artana's arm. "A quick word, if you please, Commander."

She suppressed a most uncharacteristic sigh as she heard  _that man's_ voice, though she could fault only the familiar touch and not the polite tone of voice. Nodding to Jean, she said curtly, "Continue to the library. We will be along shortly."

Jean looked at Martin, then back to Artana, but finally nodded. "As you wish,  _amour._ " Taking the place at the lead, he kept the group moving, though Artana noticed that both Isabeau and Ives glanced back more than once before they moved out of sight.

Turning to Martin, she regarded him coolly. "What is it?"

"I have a bit of a confession to make." Gesturing at the city around them, he said, "All these buildings... I find myself feeling quite  _enclosed_ , if you take my meaning. The thought of entering a building such as that, feeling all the stone and marble and brick around me..." He shuddered. "I... I cannot do it. However, recalling our discussion from before, I wanted to let you know  _why_  I need to leave rather than simply disappearing. I... owe you that much at the least,  _non?"_

She had to admit to a grudging sort of respect, both in admitting this odd weakness and in taking the time to tell her when previously she knew he would have simply disappeared. "Thank you for telling me. I intend to see if there are sufficient beds in the hostel attached to the library itself. Would you like us to reserve a bed for you in whatever lodgings we acquire?"

Martin placed his hand over his heart and bowed to her. "If you would be so kind, I would appreciate it. Perhaps sleep will grant me peace despite the walls around me."

"Very well." She turned to head after the group, then paused and looked at him, eyes narrowing slightly. "We wish to remain as inconspicuous as possible. Do not draw attention to yourself."

His head tilted slightly as he arched an eyebrow. "When I so desire, I can be as inconsequential as a shadow. And since it is  _your_  desire, I shall strive to be ignored by all I encounter. Until later, then,  _ma Commandant."_

After a final bow, Martin moved away. Artana watched him with a frown until he disappeared, heading down an alleyway that she had hardly noticed until he used it.  _'Ma_  Commandant?' What made that man so delusional to think any ownership or intimation whatsoever existed between them? Deciding to leave it before any anger could reach the surface, Artana shook her head and headed toward the library.


End file.
